The Order's Best Years
by Mirror and Image
Summary: Malik watches the Order grow after Altair becomes Grandmaster.
1. The New Master

**The Order's Strongest Years**

Mirror and Image

**The New Master**

"Altair!"

The master assassin had collapsed, and the vision of the golden globe had disappeared back into the artifact. Malik ignored it with single-minded intent, instead dashing to the fallen assassin's side. His friend was a mess, the debacle in Jerusalem having already broken his fingers, to say nothing of whatever brutal fight he'd endured making his way to Robert de Sable. In Masyaf, Malik and the other assassins had watched as brothers, blind, unthinking, controlled _brothers_ had beaten him, a young apprentice moving with skill of a master and stabbing Altair. Then, of course, there had been the brutal fight with Al Mualim himself. Malik had only seen a few brief moments of it, and had not realized that _that_ battle, too, had taken its toll on the master assassin. His stab wound was bleeding profusely, and he gasped with the injury as Malik worked to rip off a coattail and roll it to staunch the bleeding.

"Malik," Altair asked, his soft tenor now dark and rough. "Is he dead? Is he truly dead? Or is this another illusion?"

The pain - not the physical but the emotional pain - on his face burned into Malik's mind, and he had to work through his own reaction to the sight before getting up and darting over to the old man's body. He saw the knife wounds Altair had inflicted on their teacher, and the puncture wound to the neck, blood still slowly seeping out. The sight was both disturbing and a relief at the same time. Al Mualim... he had done so much for the Order, had such a personal connection to everyone in the brotherhood, but that made the betrayal so much deeper. The hurt so much stronger. Grieving and rejoicing at the same time, Malik put his ear to the old man's mouth, looking to see if the chest would rise and fall.

Nothing tickled his ears, and no motion occurred.

"Yes," Malik said, releasing a breath he was not aware he had been holding. "He is dead."

Altair struggled, but eventually sat up, holding his side and pressing Malik's compress against his wound. "Cut his throat," he grunted.

"... _What?_"

"Cut his throat," Altair said again. If Malik didn't know the man better, he would have thought the master assassin was begging. He winced against a fresh wave of pain, before turning to look Malik in the eye. "Please, Malik," he said, "I need to be sure."

Something in his eyes spoke to the one-armed man, and with deft skill he pulled out a throwing knife - the last one in his arsenal after the diversionary attack - and ran it along the two key veins on either side of the old teacher's neck. Some blood leaked out, but very little, most of it pooled by the body's head.

"It's done," Malik said, slightly shocked at what he had just done. This man was like a father to him, to them, and he had just desecrated his body...

Altair slumped forward slightly, a heavy breath leaving his lungs. "I killed him four times..." he moaned, a four-fingered hand with broken fingers moving up to rub his face. "But he disappeared in light, I couldn't be sure..."

Malik left the body and was by Altair's side in an instant. "You've lost a lot of blood. You need rest. A night's sleep will help you feel convinced."

"I can't," Altair said, pulling his hand away to look up to Malik. "I have to be sure."

"Look, brother," Malik pressed, "After you've rested you can burn or bury or dismember the body for all I care, but you need strength first before you can do any of those things. If the old man is tricking us again, believe me, we will find out."

Altair eventually relented, but it only lasted for a few hours. Masyaf was a mess, the influence of the cursed artifact lingering and slow to fade. There were also the losses of brothers, controlled or otherwise, and the body count was higher than any attack by the Templars had ever staged. Malik kicked the ball of torment into Al Mualim's study, uncertain of how to destroy it, and it was the middle of the night when Altair sought him out.

"Stupid novice, what are you doing?" Malik demanded in a harsh whisper, respectful of the mourning and nightmares happening around him.

Altair shook his head. "We have to tell the others. They need to know what's happened here."

"That can wait-"

"_No_, it can't," the master assassin pressed. A hand went to his side, but with a deep breath he straightened. "You say you sent letters everywhere. You'll likely have responses by the dozens, you need to go to Jerusalem and tell them what's happened here, find out what's going on in Damascus and Ibtisam and why he wasn't here. Al Mualim's betrayal, it will bring chaos, and we need to contain it as quickly as possible before it turns into more tragedy. Enough..." he winced, but not from physical pain, "Enough have died."

Malik took a long moment to measure Altair, gauging, calculating, searching; ultimately, he nodded, and put his hand on the master assassin's shoulder. "Do nothing until I return," he said. "The old man's betrayal has hurt you most of all; you were the one who fought him. Take the time to think before you act rashly." He gave a crooked smile, "We don't want the others to find out what a novice you are."

Even that did not bring about a smile, and Malik knew that this was serious. Once he'd managed to cajole Altair to bed, he gathered up the men he had brought with him from Jerusalem and explained what his assignment was.

"Halim," he said, turning to the newly promoted journeyman, "I need you to keep an eye on Altair. Try to prevent him from doing something stupid."

The journeyman gave a stout nod. "Yes, _dai_. I'll do what I can."

"Good. Seosamh, work with Jabal to explain what's going on to the brothers that were under Al Mualim's control. They're very confused, and Altair was right that we need to clear this up as quickly as possible."

"Agreed," the Jewish journeyman said.

* * *

><p>Leaving Masyaf had been more difficult than Malik had even imagined. Everything important was in there: his men, Altair, the other assassins, Al Mualim's corpse, the home of the Order, all of it was there and all of it was suffering. He felt like he was somehow abandoning them in riding back to Jerusalem, but he could not shake the frightening vision of Al Mualim invisible in the garden, his ears dying in a painful shriek generated from the artifact, and Altair unerringly throwing knives where the old man was. That was merely an illusion? The sorcery involved was terrifying.<p>

So much had happened that Malik had nearly forgotten about the Saracen and Crusader armies, both were battered and licking their wounds in camps, the _dai_ of Jerusalem had to be very careful on his ride, sticking to the less traveled but more difficult mountain roads. Life still occurred outside the Order, and Malik was forced to realize that it would be good to go back to Jerusalem - if for no other reason than his Bureau was closest to the armies and likely had the most information on their movements and future plants.

He was issuing orders as soon as he entered the Bureau, apprentices and journeymen alike flooding to him. He called for one meeting for most the members and explained - in painful detail - exactly what had happened in Masyaf since he left. He explained the state of the villagers, the beating Altair had sustained, brother fighting brother, the assault on the keep, and the sorcery involved in the battle with the mad master. Everyone listened with pale faces and shocked expressions.

"We have a job to do," Malik concluded. "We need to know what those Crusaders are doing and whether or not Salah ad-Din knows that some of his most trusted advisors were killed by us - and if so, whether or not he knows they were planning to betray him. We need to send a diplomat to him. Also, how many letters have we received in my absence? The rest of the Order needs to know what has happened. A representative from all the nearby cities, Acre, Damascus, Cairo, anyone who can ride or sail here in less than a month need to send a representative to create enough of a conclave to decide who the knew master will be."

"... Won't it be Altair?" someone asked.

Malik shook his head. "That is what the conclave is to decide."

He meted out assignments, having the novices draft copies of a letter he dictated to all the city leaders. After that, he sent an envoy to Salah ad-Din to visit Jerusalem.

Then came the waiting.

It was three weeks before he could meet with Salah ad-Din; in that time he absorbed every scrap of information about the two armies, learned what he could of the major battle that had happened at Arsuf, how Jaffa had at last fallen to Crusaders, replied to letters from other assassins, and sent a dozen letters himself to Masyaf to update Altair on what was happening. The last thing the Order needed was an information blackout.

The Sultan of the kingdom stood and waited patiently under the shade of the Dome of the Rock as Malik met with him, the most senior journeymen he had left at his side.

"Words speak of a conflict inside your own borders," Salah ad-Din said. "I am surprised that you have the time to call a meeting with me."

"You are right," Malik said, nodding his head and keeping level eyes on the sultan. "The conflict is being dealt with as we speak, but what is most troubling is the source: Templars."

Salah ad-Din nodded in turn. "They are a thorn in everyone's side."

"Especially yours."

"No more than Hospitaliers or any other Crusader force."

Malik offered a black smile. "Do you think so? Then perhaps you are not aware of the favor we have done for you."

The sultan's eyes narrowed. "...Favor?"

"Majd Addin, regent controlling Jerusalem after every other man you named was mysteriously killed. Jubair al Hakim, an 'illuminated' scholar from your court. Abu'l Nuquod, one of your chief financiers. What do these names mean to you?"

Salah ad-Din's eyes had narrowed even further, thoughts were running through his head. He knew those names, and damn well had his suspicions, but he held his tongue. Malik suspected as much and continued.

"Were you aware that they, and others, had affiliated themselves with the Templar cause? They were planning on killing you and Richard both, and use sorcery to control the entire Holy Land, perhaps even further. If you doubt me," he added, gesturing to his journeyman, who handed him several scrolls, "You need only look at these documents we apprehended from them and theirs. Note that one of them is the personal journal of Robert de Sable, grandmaster of the Templars. I've already made my copies, these are the originals, for you, to do with as you please."

The sultan sat down and examined the documents. Salah ad-Din was no fool - his belief in sorcery aside - and was shrewd when it came to tactical decisions. He was thorough in his reading, taking several hours to go through all the scrolls, checking back and forth for verification. The original handwriting of Robert de Sable was compelling, as was the account information for Abu'l Nuquod, and color completely drained from the sultans face when he read of Jubair's book burnings.

"Were it not for the handwriting of my own men, I would have thought this an _assassyun_ trick, but I cannot deny it now." He returned the scrolls to Malik, which surprised the _dai_, before getting up and signaling to one of his men. "I will deal with these men personally, but I thank you for the information."

The one armed man smirked. "You've been chasing Richard too long, it seems," Malik said. "The assassins have already solved the problem for you: all of them are dead."

Salah ad-Din looked sharply to Malik. "What?" he demanded.

"They were Templars," he answered, shrugging his shoulders and grinning. "You of all people know what we think of their ideology. We would have dealt with them regardless, but I thought it would be a courtesy to keep you apprised of these recent developments."

"Ah, and now I begin to see why we are having this meeting," Salah ad-Din said. "You think you've done me a favor, and now you want me to do you one in return. I've already told you that defending Masyaf is on your own shoulders, I will not help if it falls under assault."

"Nor would we expect you to," Malik said, conceding the point. "Besides, I wouldn't dream of asking you a favor; we are allies, helping you helps us, we would not desire recompense for such honorable companions such as you. However," he said, drawing out the word. "Winter is approaching, and we all know how difficult it is to travel when entire mountain passes are buried in snow. My information tells me that Richard will be spending the season solidifying his claim on Jaffa, perhaps you can use that time to look through the rest of your inner circle, see if there are other traitors in your midst. Or maybe the two of you can settle this dispute over the heir of Jerusalem in the interim.

"After all," Malik said a deadly grin on his face, "We all want peace in this land. It is why we are allies, is it not? I would hate to think you are more interested in killing people than you are in ruling over them justly."

Color drained from the Sultan's face again, no doubt remembering the terrifying events that happened to him during his assault on Masyaf in the past.

"You judge me too rashly," he said, his voice strong even if his face had given him away. "I am a Muslim first and foremost. Chivalry, charity, honor come first. If Richard and his Crusader infidels can actually manage to understand reason and honor, I am more than willing to talk to him."

"Then we are agreed," Malik said, nodding. "Safety and peace, sultan."

Salah ad-Din nodded his head. "Safety and peace, _assassyun_. If nothing else, you've done right by me and mine since our alliance. I hope your conflict resolves itself."

After he turned and left, Malik's frown appeared, and he gave a deep sigh. "Let us hope," he whispered.

* * *

><p>It was two days after that that he left Jerusalem, his work as complete as he could stand it, and rode back to Masyaf. If all went well, he would be in time for the conclave, the other Bureau leaders arriving, and they could settle succession of the Order.<p>

The atmosphere in the village was tense as he entered. Even a month after the fact, the villagers looked to one another in confusion and disbelief. Trauma like what they had suffered would not disappear quickly, and Malik grieved that such an atrocity had occurred in his very home. Halim, the journeyman he had left in charge of looking after Altair, all but ran up to him.

"Master!" he said quickly, dressed in a guard uniform rather than the more invisible journeyman robes.

"You run like a Templar is at your tail, what has happened?"

"Not much in recent days," he said, "but just after you left! It was horrible! I don't know how he did it!"

"Slow down, brother," Malik said, putting his hand on the boy's shoulders. "What are you talking about? Did he do something stupid?"

Halim's face crunched together in indecision, thoughts racing, before finally explaining. "Master Altair, he wanted to make sure Al Mualim was dead, after the visions we saw in the garden I do not blame him. He arranged for a pyre the morning after you left. I tried to tell him to wait but he said he was well enough to no longer be rash. He... he burned the body on the cliffs overlooking the village. Everyone watched it; nobody knew what to make of it. Cremation... it's forbidden. Someone, he had been talking to Altair and he... he... he _pushed Altair over the cliff!_"

Malik saw red.

He would kill, _kill_ the idiot who tried to murder a brother in cold blood when he _still possessed his faculties_. He could forgive those that had fallen under that cursed artifact's influence, but to have one's own mind and attack a brother? Inconceivable! The tenets were clear - do not compromise the brotherhood! Malik growled and resumed his trek up the mountain, Halim hard pressed to catch up, still explaining.

"It... It was chaos after that! Brother was fighting brother, some were against the cremation and wanted to do further harm to Altair, others knew what he was trying to do and were defending him, and Master Altair..."

It was just getting worse and worse. The Order had _never_ been so divided; even _more_ reason to kill the wretch who had started this. Malik spun on his heel when Halim stopped talking, the silence suddenly making him fear the worst. Assassins knew how to take a fall, but if there was no preparation, no haystack to soften the blow... "What about Altair?" he demanded.

Halim's face was slack with awe, a look Malik knew all too well from when he was the _dai_ of Jerusalem. Halim's apprenticeship had been filled with that reverent look whenever Altair's name came up.

"He... he broke an arm in that fall," the young journeyman said, "but in spite of that and his other injuries, he took up the fight and... and he only disarmed the brothers. He grew a pile of swords at his feet instead of bodies. He... he did not break the Creed, and then..."

Malik worked to hide his stare. Altair had always been gifted, but there came a point when things were just beyond belief. Broken fingers, a stab wound that had only a night to heal, battered and bruised, and now a _broken arm_ and the master assassin was still fighting? The one armed _dai_ tried to remind himself that this was _Halim_, a boy who worshiped Altair, and to take his words with a grain of salt. But then, he had seen the new Altair, the one changed by his demotion and public humiliation; the new Altair had come to treasure the Creed, had asked Malik and Jabal and the others to not kill the brothers controlled by the Apple as they planned their assault, had asked Malik to survive and tell everyone what had happened in Masyaf if he failed to kill Al Mualim. It was all too easy to picture the changed master assassin fight to disarm brothers, and to neglect himself in the process. But... a _broken arm?_

"What happened next?" he asked.

"Abbas," Halim said, "The brother who pushed Altair... he had the Apple in his hand."

Malik paled.

"He must have taken it while we were fighting, he was up on the watchtower at the base of the keep. He and Altair shouted at each other about fathers, I didn't understand it, and then... and then... The artifact glowed, and everything hurt so much... everyone was screaming... we all fell to the ground... it was so hard to think past the pain..."

The only thing Malik could think to do was put his hand on Halim's shoulder, the teen's face wrought with emotion and remembered pain. He waited.

"I wasn't sure until after, but I thought I saw Master Altair get up. He seemed unaffected by those... pulses. He... he climbed the watchtower somehow, and was able to take the Apple and make it all stop. He's locked it away in the lower library for now, and nobody quite knows what to do. Your letters have helped; everyone breathed a sigh of relief when you reported setting up a meeting with Salah ad-Din - I assume it went well. Altair's been keeping to the keep, and Abbas... the man who tried to kill him... he had nightmares for two weeks after it all happened. We could all hear him screaming."

"You mean he is still _alive_?" Malik demanded.

Halim shrank back against the _dai's_ vehemence. "Y... Yes. Master Altair won't let anyone kill him. He told us, and so far we're all obeying. I hope the conclave votes him as the new grandmaster."

Malik sighed. "Don't let your opinions cloud your judgment."

"I'm not!" the journeyman said, defensive. He caught himself, however, and changed his tone. "Master, I think Altair the best choice because he's the only one immune to the Apple, and he adheres to the Creed better than others, than almost anyone, and we know he's smart because he was able to learn of Al Mualim's betrayal, and..."

"Enough, Halim," Malik said, weary of trying to teach the teen how to think. He brought up compelling reasons, true, Altair's intelligence and newfound respect for the Creed would certainly help, but immunity to the artifact was moot once the damned thing was to be destroyed, and Altair _still_ ran against tradition and was _clearly_ still impulsive. Whatever tradition dictated, Malik privately agreed with burning the body. Al Mualim had done nothing to earn an honored funeral, and the added bonus of confirming his death actually made it a smart idea - but doing it so quickly after the battle, doing it on the lower cliffs in front of the entire _village_, that had been out and out _idiocy_.

He rubbed his face, scratching at his stubble, and made his way to the keep. He saw many faces he didn't know, _rafiq_ and _dai_ of other cities far away, having arrived because of Malik's letters. He did not know where or who Abbas was, but he had a good idea on where to find Altair, and so he made his way into the keep and up the many flights of stairs to a roof access. Sure enough, Altair was standing by one of the eagle statues, looking out over the village that sprawled below them. The wind this high up was downright chilly, and the scent of snow just barely danced in the air. It would be an early winter.

"You've been quite busy, novice," Malik said slowly over the wind, coming up to stand next to the master assassin. He could see the bindings on Altair's arm, the sling and tight wrappings that kept it from moving. He had broken an arm after all. Malik winced at the very thought, his missing arm twitching where it no longer existed.

"As have you," Altair said, his soft tenor only barely heard over the wind. "How did the meeting with Salah ad-Din go?"

"As I wanted it," Malik replied, allowing the avoidance for the moment. "He'll spend his winter looking through his ranks and sending envoys over to Richard. The Crusaders are busy 'fortifying' Jaffa. I don't know if he plans to take Jerusalem come spring, his ego seems to be satisfied with proving to the world that Salah ad-Din isn't infallible. We'll see."

The two looked out over Masyaf on either side of the eagle statue. Neither said anything for a long time.

But, then,

"Why is this man, Abbas, still alive?"

Altair remained perfectly still; made no motion that he had even heard Malik, and the one armed _dai_ almost thought he would have to repeat himself.

"... because he is a brother," was the soft reply.

Altair turned suddenly and made his way to the roof access, Malik quick to follow. "He tried to kill you!"

"No, he tried to kill his inner demons."

"And what does that mean? Altair!"

They made their way down a steep, narrow, circular staircase, Malik trailing after the master assassin and uncertain if the man was running away or not. When Altair suddenly stopped the _dai_ almost ran into him, but the master assassin turned and looked up at him, his brown eyes almost golden.

"Abbas is chained to his father, and sees me as the center of his strife," he said slowly, softly. "On reflection, what I did was the right thing to do, but how I did it was not, and he has blamed me ever since."

Malik frowned, trying to understand. "What are you talking about?" he pressed hoping for more.

But Altair turned back around, closing the topic permanently. "I'm sure everyone saw your arrival; now that you're here the conclave can meet and decide who the next grandmaster is. I'm sure you'll have to give a report, too, on the work you've done in Jerusalem, everyone is anxious about Salah ad-Din and Richard, and they will be relieved to know we at least have the winter to wash away all this blood."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Notes:<strong> Yes, yes, another AC fic.

First and foremost, a HUGE thanks to our beta Tenshi. It's so rare that we even have a beta, and getting one for this was great. She helped catch typos we both missed and, most important of all, helped divide this 65 page fic into manageable parts.

The point of this fic is to cover the 30 gap between Altair memory sequences in ACR. You don't have to play ACR to know what's going on, but that was the inspiration for this fic. This is also based - very loosely - to our AC Novelization and a fic called It Must Be You. Neither of these are necessary to read this fic, either, but names like Halim and Ibtisam may make more sense if you have. If not, they're just throw-away characters regardless.

This fic jumps around in time a bit - we have 30 years to cover, after all - so keep that in mind if you suddenly find yourself five year ahead of where you left off.

We hope you enjoy.


	2. The Templar

**The Former Templar**

Malik was sitting in the upper study, his legs contorted around the railing as always, when an instructor, Yazan, came up to him.

"The master has returned," he said softly, grinning faintly.

"At last," the one armed man said, putting aside his scrolls and quill and charcoal. "Someone else to look at these cursed reports and decide what to do with them."

"Perhaps," Yazan said cryptically, the grin on his aged face widening. "Perhaps not."

Malik took a deep breath, counted to ten, and asked, "Is there a reason behind that riddle?"

The grin widened to an outright smile. "You will see," he said simply, before turning and leaving.

Damn the old fool and his habitual desire to be mysterious. Malik finished putting his work away before unwrapping his legs and shaking them out, moving down the steps to the entrance of the keep to see what the fuss was about. Several of the village guards and journeymen, even young novices and apprentices, had gathered under the keep, filling the training ring and chattering back and forth.

Since Altair's promotion to grandmaster, his first order was to forgive the brothers who had attacked him and others when Abbas had stolen the Apple. "The death of Al Mualim has caused confusion in all of us, we are all divided inside our very hearts as well as amongst each other. But we are a brotherhood first, and I will not compromise the brotherhood by killing those who attacked brothers because of that confusion. Far better to work together to rebuild the Order so that we are stronger than before." The entire winter had been spent in joint training exercises, working as a team to accomplish various tasks to heal the damage Al Mualim had done. Now Malik watched the benefits as everyone gathered in the ring in anticipation of Altair as he made his way up the mountain. In the span of a season Altair had repaired the hearts of almost everyone, and for the last three years Malik had listened and eavesdropped on them as they remarked on the master's dedication and loyalty and respect for everyone in the Order, and he knew that Altair would have no one to challenge his claim to his position.

Malik made his way to the gates, trying to look foul but knowing his smirk was leaking through his face. He, too, was glad to see Altair back - for the selfish reason that he wouldn't have to do the paperwork all by himself. The rest of the conclave had long since returned to their respective cities, managing their own affairs, leaving Malik to manage them instead of Altair. Deep down, however, where he would only admit it to himself and maybe to the grandmaster, he was glad that his friend was returning unharmed. That winter had served the two of them as well, they had become a well-oiled team that played to their respective strengths and covered each other's (mostly Altair's many, glaring) weaknesses.

Altair walked up the trail, surrounded by a small contingent of the village guards that had tried to strike up conversation with him, as well as the odd villager who knew of him and wanted to be in the grandmaster's presence. He tried to give them his attention as best he could, smirking to one woman who smiled right back. The brunette was dressed in man's clothes, and was a face Malik did not recognize.

"Malik!" the master assassin cried.

Malik scowled. "It's about time, novice!" he said. "Do you have any idea how long you've been gone? How much paperwork I've had to fill out! Do your job properly!"

And, in the end, Altair tilted his head back and openly laughed, his smile wider than Malik had ever seen before in the reticent assassin.

"You can flog me for it later," he said, reaching up and slapping Malik's shoulder. "For now, I am _home_, and I am at peace."

The one-armed assassin's eyes widened at the last statement, and his eyes flicked to the brunette. She was very petite, a round pale face framed by her dark braids, and there was strength in her body that could be seen under the clothes. Her smile, however, was as bright as Altair's, and the cryptic smile from Yazan suddenly made sense.

Malik smiled as well, turning to the woman. "It's good to see _someone_ can tame this stupid eagle. You have my congratulations and my condolences, woman. I would have your name so that it can be nominated for Christian sainthood."

"Maria," the brunette said. "Maria Thorpe."

Blinking, color drained from Malik's face as he recognized the name from Altair's reports in Cyprus. The Templar woman who kept escaping? The _Templar_ woman who impersonated de Sable?

His critical gaze was met with a flat look from Altair, and Malik knew challenging him would be moot - the grandmaster had made his decision and would not waiver. Struggling, Malik put on a smile and turned back to the woman.

"No doubt you will bring excitement to the entire Order," he said, knowing his words were more ambiguous than he wanted but unable to think of something kinder to say.

To her credit, Maria sensed this and offered a soft, almost coy smile. "I'm certainly not what anyone expected. Even him," she added, pointing to Altair. "But I assure you the only trouble you'll get from me is if anyone tries to challenge my right to be here."

A spitfire under that soft face? The ice in her voice was palpable, and Malik dreaded what the next few months would bring. He rubbed his face with his hand, uncertain how to even react, and was further flabbergasted by Altair's goofy, _goofy_, grin. He was not aware the master assassin even _had_ the right muscles to _manage_ a goofy grin.

"We're doomed," he moaned.

Altair only laughed again, the bastard.

* * *

><p>It was several hours later, after dark, when the journeymen and apprentices and novices had been put to bed, when bellies were full and thirst for entertainment satiated, that Altair pulled the senior staff to the lower library for a meeting. Maria sat immediately next to him, her soft face hard with anticipation and holding Altair's hand.<p>

"You've all read my reports," Altair said, his soft tenor ominously neutral. "I did not tell you everything in them. First is that this is Maria Thorpe, former steward of Robert de Sable," the room erupted briefly in noise, "and my wife."

"Wife? _Wife?_" Abbas said, standing up in outrage. "She is a Templar! A spy! She cannot be trusted! Kill her and be done with it!"

Malik groaned, knowing that such spite would make the man dig his heels in.

"No," the grandmaster said slowly, softly.

Others offered their own opinions.

"How did this happen?"

"What were you thinking?"

"What if she betrays us?"

"How can you trust her?"

"What about the Creed? Never compromise the brotherhood!"

Maria stood up. "I _am_ in the room, you know," she shouted, eliciting several stares. She crossed her arms and glared at the assassins before here. "Did any of you even think to _ask_ why I'm here? Or are you too busy leaping to conclusions? Oh, but I forget, I'm just a silly woman who doesn't even know her own mind. Never mind that I could pull all of you to a draw or better in combat, never mind that I'm good enough to save _his_," she jutted an accusatory finger to Altair, "life. Never mind that I helped secure Cyprus as an assassin base. Oh, no, all these things I've done to help you, they all pale by comparison to the fact that Robert was the _only_ person in the entirety of Europe to actually respect me." She turned bitter eyes to Altair. "It looks like the Holy Land is no different."

And she stomped out of the room, her eyes very bright, leaving an empty void of silence in her wake.

Malik was the first to gather his wits; sighing and leaning back in his chair. "Stupid novice," he muttered, rubbing his face. "What kind of reaction were you expecting when you announce her like that?"

Altair's fists were tight knots on the arms of the chair; he looked like he wanted to murder someone and was uncertain whom. "I wanted you all to know the truth, she does not hide what she was and I respected that."

"There is nothing about her to respect," Abbas hissed. "She is a _Templar_!"

"She _was_ a Templar," Altair corrected, his voice significantly louder. "And barely that."

That perked Malik's interest. How could one "barely" be a Templar? "What do you mean?" he asked slowly, mindful of the numerous dissenting opinions in the room and hesitant to shut down Altair completely. He was such a _bother_ sometimes.

The grandmaster sighed, rubbing his forehead with his right hand, now empty of Maria's. "The story is long, but in essence she joined the Crusades as a man. She is a proficient fighter to survive the battlefields, but Robert eventually found out what she was. Instead of banishing her back to England he took her under his wing, and that gesture of kindness garnered her loyalty."

"She is still loyal even now!" Abbas cried out, others nodding. "You heard how she praised that madman."

Altair's head rolled slightly, and Malik knew his eyes were matching the gesture; he threw a look to the others, hoping they would see it and still their damn tongues. Altair met opposition with opposition, and the last thing anyone needed was another division in the Order only three years after the last. Rauf saw it and nodded, so did the scholar Yazan.

Rauf leaned forward in his chair. "You say she was loyal to Robert. You imply that she was not loyal to the Templars. Is this true?"

Altair took a long moment to reply but finally sighed. "She followed Robert devoutly, but she did not agree with all the beliefs of the Templars. He made her feel accepted in a way she did not in her own country, and she could not refute that."

"So, then," Rauf said slowly, "She is no longer interested in her former allies."

"She tried to be," Altair explained. "We were... conflicted... much of the time, but the Templars abandoned her because she was a woman and they believed her close to the assassins. She tried to kill me several times to regain her place in the Order, but their betrayal to her was complete."

"And the part where she tricked you into becoming her _husband_?" Abbas hissed.

"We grew close in our time and in our fighting." Altair's gaze flicked to Malik, and suddenly the former _dai_ of Jerusalem could see exactly what had happened because it had happened the same way with he and the grandmaster. Looking at it that way meant that this Maria had a similar disposition to him, and that made Malik's curiosity override any weariness he had towards the woman. He suddenly itched to debate with her and see how she made her arguments.

"There came a point where she had to make a decision," Altair continued, "and she chose to help me. She saved my life and led me to the Templar Archive under Limassol Castle."

"Oh," Yazan said, "At least the Apple has been sealed away then."

Altair winced.

Malik groaned in anticipation.

"You mean to say it's _not_?" Abbas demanded, standing up again, furious.

Reaching into a pouch in his belt, Altair pulled out the dormant silver ball.

Malik counted to five before the second uproar erupted about the room. Their grandmaster was such an _idiot_; that was his first reaction. Everyone feared the artifact, were terrified that it would divide the Order again; it was unanimously agreed that it be locked away, and the Archive had been the best choice. But no, Altair had changed his mind, wanted to keep "studying" the damn thing and be worn down by its visions. Malik did not relish being attacked by a fevered, malnourished, delirious Altair _again_ thanks.

But even as those thoughts ran through his mind, others did too. The winter they had spent together had shown Malik that Altair had more than a mind in his skull. The man was determined to do what was best and what was right; not what was convenient or safe. "Our duty is to people, not to custom," he had said, and Malik knew, deep down, that the Piece of Eden terrified Altair just as much as the others. He would not keep it without good reason.

And so, under the din of noise the other senior assassins were making, he leaned over and simply asked, "Why?"

"Even with the help from Markos and the other Resistance members, the sheer amount of misinformation that has flooded the island is too great, I cannot trust to leave it there, and the Archive in Limassol is still surrounded by Templars. It simply is not safe." He sighed, deeply, and rubbed his forehead again. "I fear that nowhere is safe for this artifact, and if that is the case, then I am the safest place for it because I am immune to most of its effects. I fear the arrogance of that thought, I fear the temptation that creates, and I fear the burden of that duty."

Malik reached out and put a hand on his friend. "We'll figure something out, once we get these rabble-rousers in line."

Altair turned to Malik, and under the hood he could see the gold-brown eyes smile, faintly.

"When Maria tires of her temper, let her know I wish to speak with her. I must test her worth, you see," Malik said grinning.

Altair frowned, uncertain what the one armed man meant. "She already-" he started but Malik cut in.

"I think a swordfight might be in order," he said, theatrically thinking out loud. "Perhaps in front of the novices and apprentices, maybe a few journeymen. If she is as good as she claims, she should fair well, and her skill will give the children something to talk about."

"Thereby ingratiating her into the Order," Altair finished, grinning. "Clever."

"More than you are."

"At least I'm married."

"That that fact is a favor or not has yet to be determined," Malik quipped.

The two grinned and nodded before turning back to the senior assassins.

* * *

><p>When Malik first broached a conversation with Maria she kicked him bitterly between the legs before stomping off, causing a startled Altair to be torn between whom to support. Groaning and rocking, Malik threw the idiot after his wife and bemoaned the kind of husband the novice was going to be. That thought grew in strength when he began hearing the increased volume of shouting coming from wherever Altair had followed his new wife.<p>

"He _would_ face everything as a fight," the one armed man muttered as the pain slowly subsided. At least they weren't screaming, a small favor for his ears that he was grateful for.

When he could stand, and then later when he could walk (that woman knew _exactly_ where to hit, damn her!), he moved on to other things to give the pair time. When an hour had passed and he had not see either of them he calculated the risk and eventually went to find them.

This lead to him walking in on the two of them, naked and in heat, trying to choke and kiss each other at the same time.

A strangled noise emitted somewhere in Malik's throat, startling the newlyweds, and Malik fled from the scene. He could not look at either of them for a week afterwards, could barely even talk to Altair to get work done, and utterly _refused_ to answer anyone's questions on why he was suddenly being so distant to the grandmaster.

Altair, the bastard, was utterly unapologetic. "It is a natural occurrence between two people who are married," he said in his soft tenor, and the picture of it would rush through Malik's mind again and he could only groan and hold his head in his hand. "If you had a wife you would understand."

"Don't tease me, novice," Malik said - decidedly _not_ pleading, "not over this."

That only made Altair smirk and Malik threw a knife at him. The grandmaster caught it of course, and his smirk grew into a grin. "If you feel this aggressive then perhaps we should do something about it?" he asked in another teasing voice, this time layered with something entirely different, and Malik slammed his fist onto the table before getting up and stalking out of the upper level study.

Maria sought him out after that, hours later when the moon was rising above the mountains and Malik stood in the gardens, trying to deter himself from committing murder.

Upon seeing her, he turned away, shamed by the fact he had seen her body when it was not his to see.

"I think..." she said softly, her English vowels still so alien to his ears, "I think we didn't start off well." Her manner was completely different than the attitude she had been showing.

"You kicked me where a man should never be kicked," Malik answered. A quick glance showed Maria look down, her pale skin showing a bright flush in the moonlight.

"You were not very welcoming," she accused, a more familiar defensive bite in her tone. "I saw how you looked at me when I gave you my name."

"I was shocked," Malik said, still not looking at her. "That idiot novice never even gave a hint about what was happening between the two of you. I respect his privacy," he blushed again, "but you are a lot to take in. That he was stupid enough to announce you as he did only made things worse."

Silence stretched before them, a soft breeze blowing small petals and wisps of scent through the air.

"... Is it true that this garden is full of concubines?" she asked in a neutral tone.

"No," Malik answered. "There are women here, yes, but they are mostly healers - of the body and of the heart. If the men seek _that_ kind of solace, they go to their wives."

"I see," she said softly.

Malik risked another glance and saw her in profile, looking down and deep in thought. For the first time, she looked like a woman, and at last Malik realized, at least a little, what she was looking for. He waited.

"Altair... he said that the assassins respect ideas, he talked to me once about Empedocles, and Al Kindi. I've read some of their work in your library. I'm... surprised, I guess, at how I've been treated since I came here. How can an order that proclaims tolerance and intelligence be so backwards when it comes to me?"

Ah, and there was the crux of the problem. "Nothing is true, and everything is permitted," Malik said, "I am certain you've heard that phrase by now."

"Yes, another assassin idiom."

Malik finally turned to face her. "If you want to be an _assassyun_, a 'pillar of the faith,' then you need to understand what that means. Philosophy, ideas, intellect, tolerance, everyone here strives for that, but the truth is that reality often falls far short. The enlightenment of which we teach is only a part of a very long journey, and it is irresponsible to think that everyone can attain it. That is why we _reach_ for it, because in reaching we stretch our minds, and with every stretch we become slightly better than what we were, and that is how we seek to better others. Even we have our customs and traditions, beliefs and superstitions, and in weak moments they can hold us back. It is how we grow past them that is important."

Malik turned back to the moon, higher in the sky now. It was a crystal clear night; he could see every star.

"After you and Altair first met, he came to me to report what had happened. We fought; he wanted to ride to Arsuf to stop de Sable's treachery and I wanted him to report to Al Mualim because that was what was supposed to be done. I wasn't ready, in some ways, to listen to what he was saying. He accused me of using the Creed like a shield, and I was forced to see if his accusation was true or not. It was that fight that prompted me to go back to Solomon's Temple and see what I could dig up - to prove that novice wrong in theory, but deep down I sensed he was right and that terrified me. That was how I learned that Al Mualim had betrayed us." That was when Malik vowed he would never, _never_ use the Creed like a shield again.

Maria was staring at him; he could see it just in his peripheral vision, and he continued. "A man not of the Order, he is more likely to close his mind, to deny the facts in front of him, and continue to believe he is right. An _assassyun_, however, must resolve the difference between what one knows to be true and what one sees to be true. I grew because of that experience."

He turned and looked at the tiny Crusader - no, he looked at the tiny assassin. "The brotherhood knows you to be a Templar, they must now see that you are an assassin. After that, you will see the difference - those further on the journey will pick up on it faster, but some will never see. Can you live with that?"

Her answer was very long in coming but,

"... Yes."

"Good. Then we duel tomorrow."

Her determined face melted into solid confusion. "What?"

"They need to see past your illusion," Altair explained, causing both to look up (Maria with a start, they would have to work on that) to the upper balcony. He leapt off the safety rail and landed feather-light on the mosaic tile behind them. He looked around, uncomfortable of the garden and its memories. "They only see a woman and a Templar, we must show them you are a warrior and an assassin. Combat will be part of that."

She frowned, glancing between the two men. "I can't fight him," she said, taking a step back. "It wouldn't be fair, he only has one arm and-"

Malik's softer opinion of Maria disappeared in an instant. "It would appear you are not the only one with an illusion to transcend," he said bitterly, glaring at the woman before stalking off.

"Malik!" Altair called.

The one armed man ignored him.

* * *

><p>At dawn the next day Malik raised Rauf and explained the situation. He marveled at the idea and was more than happy to gather the novices and apprentices. Malik shed his dark <em>djellaba<em> and pulled on his old assassin whites. His last three years were not spent chained to a desk reading and writing reports; he and Rauf had worked hard to come up with a training regime that would help him compensate for his missing arm. They had worked in private mostly, Malik weary of letting others see him, especially at the beginning, when he struggled the most. But now he was once more the king of the swords, and he was determined to make Maria work for every inch of credit she earned in this duel.

The "training exercise" was scheduled for mid morning, and Malik walked out to the ring, fastening his empty sleeve more securely and nodding to Rauf. Altair he completely ignored, knowing it was anger by proxy and frankly not caring. Looking through the sword rack, he picked one of the master swords, admiring its golden handle and testing its balance, before swinging his legs over the wooden safety rail and entering the ring.

Maria joined soon after, holding a sword of her own and eyeing him wearily. Almost apologetically.

"Stop that," he growled.

"Stop what?" she demanded, instantly defensive.

"Stop looking at me like that, or I will gut you here and now, damn Altair's opinion on the matter. Grant me no favors."

Maria frowned, shrinking slightly, before puffing up and offering bravado: "The same could be said for you."

"You're wrong," Altair called out from the edge of the ring. "Malik grants no one favors."

Rauf spoke briefly, something about learning about different fighting styles, poetic justification to hide the true reason for this bout, before he took his customary place by the gate and shouted, "Begin!"

Malik took a deep breath, focusing his mind, and then ferociously attacked, a brutal swing that Maria had to dodge by several backward steps. Malik followed up with a feint, a lateral swing, and then a vertical one, driving her back more and more. The shock on her face was evident; she had not expected him to be so well balanced without the second arm. He pressed the assault relentlessly, not shy in the slightest about kicking her or shoving her with his weight. It took some three minutes before she finally recovered enough to _think_, and when she did things at last got interesting. She ducked under a strike and grabbed at Malik's shoulder harness; Malik couldn't counter grab so instead he brought his knee up into her ribcage. Maria fell and rolled, trying to get behind him. She swung her sword up and Malik blocked it, but the follow-up strike was at an angle he hadn't been expecting and he was forced - at last - to give ground.

Maria was small but that did not mean she wasn't strong. Years spent pretending to be a boy, training as a boy, had given her excellent strength, and she knew how to use her size to her advantage. It made her a challenge, and Malik was grinning as the bout progressed. In the end, though, her small size gave her less reach, and Malik finally was able to disarm her and kick her to the ground.

The fight over, he belatedly became aware of the noise surrounding the ring, and looked out to see almost the entire Order had arrived to watch the fight. Money was changing hands, hands were clapping on backs, cheers and catcalls were being whistled, and in the middle of all stood Altair, still in a crowd of motion, his arms crossed and smiling faintly at the two closest people in his life.

The novices could contain their excitement no longer and burst into the ring.

"I knew no one could beat Master Malik!"

"I never thought a woman could fight so well!"

"How can you fight with only one arm? Is it hard?"

"I'm small like you, miss; can you teach me how to fight?"

"How come you have such good balance?"

"Doesn't those things on your chest get in the way? My mother's are much bigger and they're _always_ getting in _her_ way."

Malik leaned in, grinning. "Welcome to the Order, sister."

Maria turned, flushed from the exertion and the attention, but her smile was a bright as the sun.

* * *

><p>If the amount of screaming were any indication, it was a difficult birth. A terrified apprentice had raced up to Malik at the training ring to report that Altair had threatened to kill him is he didn't get out of his way. Malik groaned, rubbing his head, and signaled to Rauf that he was about to be indisposed. The swordmaster nodded, taking over for him, and Malik followed the apprentice into the keep and up the narrow steps to the grandmasters rooms.<p>

Altair paced back and forth before the closed door, the midwives had all shooed him out and now all he could do was listen to the terrible screams of Maria.

The grandmaster looked up to Malik, a quick glance that acknowledged his existence, and went back to pacing. The one armed man motioned to the apprentice that he would take it from here, and the boy gratefully ran away.

"She screams so terribly," Altair said, still pacing. "I fear she is dying."

His thought was punctuated by another scream, and Altair tensed, looking as if he would break down the door.

Malik watched the grandmaster pace back and forth, debating on what to do. "Do you want to go to the gardens?" he asked. "Or maybe beat up some novices in the ring? I can always find paperwork for you to do - since you haven't done much since coming back with her."

Altair shook his head, his hands clenching and unclenching into fists. Maria kept screaming behind the door.

"I cannot leave her," he said, turning and pacing again. "I will not abandon her; I refuse to repeat my old mistakes."

That made Malik frown. "When have you ever abandoned her?" he asked, his head bobbing from side to side as he watched his best friend pace. "You've been almost inseparable since you arrived here. Did something happen on Cyprus?"

"No," Altair said.

"Then what makes you think you abandoned her once?"

"Not her!" he hissed, stopping in his pacing long enough to glare at Malik from under his hood. "The Order!" He resumed pacing again, his steps heavy and erratic, energy threatening to burst from his body. "Malik, I thought I made it clear. I will never again abandon the Order as I did you and your brother. I won't have more deaths result from my actions; I cannot lose anyone to a decision I made. I cannot!" He growled, deep and menacing and low in his throat, as he turned abruptly on his heel, stopping his pacing to glare at the door and the screams behind it. "I should be in there," he said. "If she dies I should be there."

"She is with a midwife," Malik said, "She is in the very best of hands."

"The best hands are _my_ hands."

Malik tilted his head back, banging it slightly against the stone he was leaning against. "Stupid, stupid, arrogant _novice_," he growled.

"Do not call me that!" Altair shouted, turning to focus his fury on Malik.

"I call you what you are!" Malik shouted right back. "If you want to do what's best for the Order, what's best for your wife, then you have to allow other people to do their jobs! You cannot keep thinking you are the only one capable of taking the risk - you have an entire brotherhood that wants to help you achieve your goals! You have to _trust_ them to make the right decisions! If the midwife says it's better for you to be out here, then you should be out here. Thinking you know better is the same type of thinking that created Al Mualim!"

The name was a heavy blow to Altair, the taught energy in his body crashing to a halt, making him completely still. The grandmaster's eyes widened, and color drained from his face.

Malik held his ground, holding his glare at Altair. He hadn't pulled his punches - he never was one to - and he rationalized that the blow would keep Altair pliant until the birthing was done. That didn't make him regret the accusation any less. Maria was still screaming behind the door, and even Malik had to admit it didn't _sound_ good, but unlike Altair he accepted the fact that he knew nothing about giving birth. If there were a problem, someone would come out; for now, they simply had to endure.

Malik stayed with Altair for several hours. The grandmaster had scared away anyone under the age of sixteen, but the older journeymen - fathers themselves - weren't the slightest bit afraid and would come to offer words of support or advice. Altair was in no frame of mind to even hear them, but Malik thanked them and accepted their words, mentally taking note of who arrived for when Altair could actually manage to think. It was deep into the afternoon, almost evening, when the midwife finally came out and beckoned the two men in without so much as a word.

Altair, Malik noted, fought his first impulse to shove the woman aside and instead bowed his head to her, walking past quietly, before his steps quickened to the side of his wife. Malik stayed at the door's entrance, this was a private moment, and so he instead whispered a few questions to the midwife: where screams like that normal, how long would it take Maria to recover, was the baby well, etc. She answered in a deep, husky voice, knowing Malik was trying to give the new parents privacy, and explained that she would be kicking everyone out soon so that she could clean up. It was then that Malik saw the pile of bloody rags, and he gulped noisily and thanked his parents he had been born a boy.

"Malik," Altair said, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. "Come here."

"... I don't want to intrude."

"Oh, stop being so fussy," Maria said, her voice weak but her ire still strong. "The godfather needs to know his godson."

Malik stepped forward hesitantly. " 'Godfather' ?"

"A Christian tradition," she said, pale but smiling brightly.

Malik frowned, still trying not to get too close. "I am not a Christian," he said slowly. Altair looked up and beckoned him again, his face split into a magnificent smile.

Maria sighed, leaning deeper into the pillows. "I haven't been a true Christian since before I joined the Crusades, but you are still the godfather. You are in charge of his spiritual education - as much as it exists with assassins - and you will be the one to take him in if anything happens to us."

_That_ stopped Malik in his tracks, the weight of the responsibility slamming into him like a horse at full gallop.

Maria opened her mouth to say something else, but Altair put a hand on her shoulder and the two shared a look that Malik didn't quite understand. The brunette nodded and Altair took the bundle he had been staring at into his arms and walked around Maria.

"Darim," he whispered to the collection of cloth, "Meet your godfather, Malik. He has a foul temper and a quick tongue, but you will never find a more loyal and intelligent man to be by your side. He even puts up with your father."

And, Altair shifted his hold on the bundle and Malik saw the tiny face look up. An even smaller hand reached up through the cloth and Altair took the tiny appendage with a finger, smiling endlessly. "Say hello to Malik," the grandmaster cooed, his voice gentler than Malik had ever heard it.

The baby's face turned, blinking, and his large eyes locked onto Malik.

And he smiled.

"... Oh," was all Malik could think to say, and suddenly Altair was guiding his arm to take hold of the little baby, Darim, and letting him hold it. Darim smiled again, so small, so innocent, and reached up, his arms flapping against the rough cotton of Malik's _djellaba_.

He couldn't refuse after that.

* * *

><p>It was, oh, months later, when Malik and Altair were doing paperwork together in the upper study. The summer heat was oppressive, and the pigeon windows were all open to help circulate the air. The cries from the training ring below could be heard, but Malik was very deft at tuning out the noise. Altair playing with little Darim, however, was a different story.<p>

The change in the grandmaster had been incredible. The entire mountain celebrated the birth of Darim; and Altair and Maria took it graciously. Altair could often be seen talking to journeymen and _rafiq_ and _dai_, asking about their own parentage, seeking advice, a smile almost perpetually plastered on his face. Holding the baby seemed to be very important; whenever Maria was busy (or, more likely, understanding of Altair's sudden change, allowed) Altair was holding Darim. Currently he was bouncing the child lightly on his knee while he read through reports, the baby greatly entertained. At regular intervals Altair would stop his work and focus his attention on little Darim, cooing or speaking to him, or just staring into the tiny baby's eyes.

Malik watched with a certain level of fascination of his own. The child was so _tiny_, and it was hard to believe something so innocent had come from Maria and especially Altair. They had both done things in their lives, _Malik_ had done things in his own life, and yet he had been granted the privilege of being the boy's instructor, watching over him when both parents were working, helping keep Altair from a panic whenever the child coughed or gurgled. In the end, he, too, found he just kept smiling, and he couldn't imagine what it would be like if he ever had a child of his own.

Altair's attention was with Darim, and Malik looked on in pride, before stretching and saying, "I dread the day when we have to bring him into the Order. You're so possessive of him I expect a fight."

The dry comment hit Altair slowly, and Malik watched as the bouncing slowly stopped, the grandmaster looking up and staring at nothing, deep thought suddenly hitting him. It made Malik sit up a little straighter - he had learned over the last four years that when that happened Altair was about to rearrange tradition. Again.

"I... have been thinking about that," he said softly, looking again to Darim. "And I wonder."

Malik could hear the senior assassins gnashing their teeth already. "What do you wonder?"

Turning to face him, Altair asked "Malik, what do you know of your father? Not as an assassin, but as your father?"

The question was a little sudden, and the one armed man had to think.

"... He had big hands," he said, "Rough and calloused. I was fascinated by their texture. I liked listening to him breath, it was a treat whenever he held me and I always pressed my ear to his chest to listen to it."

There was a long period of silence after that, Altair once more lost in thought. Malik waited, knowing something was coming.

"... I have asked many brothers about their fathers," he said. "All of them talked about their fathers as assassins. They talk about their sons with pride but they do not truly know their children. I never even saw my father until I was six; all I knew were the stories. I look at my own son, and I wonder, is it such a good thing that he will not know me as a father, and only as the Master? Is it a good thing that I should look at him so abstractly as a 'future member of the order'?"

Malik leaned forward, paperwork forgotten. "Do you regret not knowing your father?" he asked.

Altair glanced at Malik, his eyes hidden by his hood. "Al Mualim, he once said I filled my father's shoes as if they were tailored to my feet. I... It hurt when I realized I did not know what he meant; but I did not question it then because it was my life, the only life I had ever known. Now, now I have a life in front of me, one that I can shape, and I... I just wonder."

It was that kind of thinking that always managed to turn heads in the Order. Malik - having been exposed to it more than most as Altair's second-in-command - could only shrug his shoulders. The logic, such that Altair was hinting at, couldn't be argued, but years of tradition were hard to buck.

Malik looked at Darim, however, and understood. "Not everything has easy answers, Altair," he said. "There is merit in how we are raised, that cannot be denied; and the logic behind it is sound despite the old man. What you are really asking yourself is if there is a better way, and I can't help you with that - that is _your_ decision. I only advise that you take the time to think about it." He added with a grin, "Since you usually don't."

Altair smiled faintly.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Notes:<strong> Maria is a giant question mark for us. She's nothing more than a cameo in AC1, and neither of us have played the game where she shows up, and so her character is entirely based on supposition. We've read her profile on the AC wiki, and after thinking about it, we've come to the conclusion that after years of living as a boy she just naturally acts like one, and is forever irritated when people try to treat her as a girl. Where Altair barely talks to you Maria is in some ways his opposite because she's more than happy to give an opinion. I can only imagine what their fights are like - er, when they're not devolving to sex that is. Poor Malik.

We're fudging with the timeline a little bit for this fic. Maria's game, Bloodlines, theoretically takes place one month after AC1, but neither of us can imagine Altair up and wandering over to Cyprus before taking the time to solidify himself as grandmaster - especially after Abbas' insurrection. There's also the fact that purchasing Cyprus by the Templars takes place AFTER the Third Crusade is over, and while the Battle of Arsuf was the last of the fighting it had to have taken - minimum - weeks or even months to settle who the next King of Jerusalem would be. In light of that, we assume the Order took the winter to themselves (where the events of It Must Be You take place), and _then_ Bloodlines takes place. This _shouldn't_ affect Darim and Sef's births, but if anyone can suggest otherwise, let us know.

Next up, the Fourth Crusade. Let's see if the history buffs know what that means... :D


	3. The Apple

**The Apple**

Everyone knew what it was.

They all called it "training," when the grandmaster Altair took his two sons to the training ring in front of the keep. The two boys would chase their father and visa versa, he would lift the children up into the air and then lower them in a controlled "Leap of Faith," they would swat at him with wooden swords that he would easily dodge, and the three of them would laugh, endlessly.

Everyone called it "training," but they all knew what it really was.

It was "playing."

Malik watched from above, leaning against the wooden safety rail in front of the keep as his best friend chased his sons around the training ring. The grandmaster never abused his privileges, always asking the aging Rauf when the ring was free before bringing his sons out. Sometimes Maria would join them, but over the years the niche she had carved out for herself in the Order demanded more and more of her time as the brothers realized how essential she had become. Besides, she had confessed once to Malik when they watched, she had her own games with her boys, it was only fair that Altair had his.

"Altair!" he called, waving his arm, his fist wrapped around several scrolls.

The master assassin paused, his youngest son Sef hanging upside down in his arms while the older Darim tried to crawl up his father. "Yes?" he answered.

Malik waved the scrolls again. "Accounts," he said, "Halim wants you to go over it, 'just in case.' "

"Will he ever learn to stop coming to me?" the grandmaster asked rhetorically. Malik only shrugged his shoulders. Darim wrapped an arm around Altair's face and started to tug. "I'll be there soon," he said, Sef suddenly squealing and reaching over to tickle his father.

"I will wait," Malik said to himself, leaning further onto the rail briefly before hopping up onto the wood and wrapping his legs around the fence. In truth, there wasn't much need to bother the grandmaster; it could have been left on his desk in the upper study and it would have been looked over. But Malik liked watching Altair play; it was something the man had never done as a child - driven to be the best he could be, surging ahead of the other novices and determined to outshine everyone. Seeing him like this, it relaxed a corner of Malik's mind as he realized Altair was as human as anyone else.

Sometimes, even the one armed assassin forgot.

"What is he thinking?" a voice muttered beside him, and Malik turned to see Abbas, leaning on the rail and glaring down at the training ring as Altair's sons at last managed to tackle him to the ground.

Malik grinned slightly, watching the display. "I don't think he's thinking much of anything, right now," he said.

Abbas shook his head. "He is making a mockery of Rauf's hard work." The snarl was low, deep in his throat, and Malik pulled his focus away from the grandmaster and to the other assassin. His fists were tightly wrapped around the wood, his arms taught, and his mouth pressed a dark frown into his even darker beard. Anger defined his every feature.

"I fear you read too much into this," Malik said, hoping to help the angered man, "He would never mock Rauf, he is just being close to his family."

Abbas shook his head. "He disregards everything the Order stands for. We are nothing more than his pawns, to move about as he wishes."

"That is not true," Malik said gently. "He asks of us no more than he himself would give."

"His spits at tradition!"

Malik to a deep, silent breathe through his nose. "Life is as fluid as a river; its course can change in an instant because of a storm or a dry season. Traditions root us to our heritage, but it should not chain us to the past. Altair's thoughts on children are sound, the Order should grow up loving everyone, not just the brotherhood."

Abbas at last ripped his gaze away from the topic of their conversation, turning hard eyes onto the one armed man. "How can you support him as you do?" he demanded, his voice low and careful not to carry. "He killed your brother. He took your arm."

A small, wistful smile crossed Malik's face. "No," he said. "That man down there, the one 'training' his children, the one who discovered Al Mualim's treachery, the one who leads the Order, that man did not kill Kadar. The man he _was_, the arrogant one with a swelled head who did not understand the Creed, _he_ killed Kadar and robbed me of my arm. This Altair defeated him, slowly, silently, in his months of disgrace."

The other assassin scoffed, snorting and turning away.

"He is a liar and a traitor. He does not deserve this."

Malik could only frown. He remembered Altair and Abbas being thick as thieves in childhood. The two had been inseparable when Abbas' father disappeared. Two years later, though, there had been a vicious fight that all the novices had watched - there had been curses that twelve-year-old Malik had never heard before, and after Al Mualim had finally stepped in the two almost never spoke to each other again. It was then that Malik hit his growth spurt and was finally able to compete with the other boy. Altair never talked about what had happened with Abbas, and the other assassin hadn't either.

"What did he do that hurt you so deeply?"

Abbas's face twisted into something dark and ugly, and his shoulders began to shake slightly.

"Ah, Abbas, what can I do for you?"

Both men turned to see Altair standing behind them. The younger Sef was draped across his chest, half asleep and smiling, and the older Darim was hugging his thigh, eyeing the adults.

"... Nothing," the assassin hissed. As an afterthought, he added, "Master."

Altair, still smiling, shifted Sef's weight and nodded, turning to Malik. "Halim's report?"

The scrolls lay forgotten in his fist, and he quickly handed them over. "His awe of you continues unhindered."

Altair smirked slightly, reaching down to pat Darim on the head. "I have spoken to him over and over, he cannot let it go. I look forward to when he becomes _dai_ of Jerusalem."

"Yes," Malik said, grinning slightly. Halim had been a student under Malik during his time in Jerusalem, the boy was capable and skilled - more than he realized - but was utterly reverent of Altair and his skill. Now he was a remarkable assassin and spy, working in Masyaf to polish his intellectual training to make him ready to make the rank of _rafiq_. "Then he can spread his awe to the apprentices you assign him."

Altair visibly winced. In stark contrast to the man who had killed Malik's brother and brought shame to the Order, this Altair hated outright admiration and fawning. "I will look over it," he said in his soft tenor. Sef nuzzled into his neck. "After I've settled these two," he added, tugging at Darim and turning in towards the keep. He paused for a moment, looking back at Abbas and Malik. "Also, I'd like a senior meeting in two days time. Can it be arranged?"

"Yes," Malik said slowly, frowning.

Abbas demanded, "Why?"

"I had an idea."

"Oh, no," Malik groaned, rubbing his face. "Another one?" he demanded theatrically, his hand finding his hip.

Altair smirked. "One you might actually like," he said, reaching down to take Darim's hand and lead him into the keep.

* * *

><p>Two days later, as the senior assassins gathered in the lower library, Malik could already hear the moaning and groaning, mutters that another thunderbolt was going to descend upon them as the mighty grandmaster had another 'idea.' Odds were being run on what tradition was going to be rearranged, there were still bitter fights about the use of poison - even Malik had spoken out against it - and later in private he had explained that the Order was not ready for that big a leap. Together they had worked out a series of stealth assassinations, from the air or from various hide spots. That, too, had taken some cajoling, but ultimately Altair bluntly asked if they would rather use poison, and the other assassins capitulated. That Altair was still considering suggesting poison later, after they had time to get used to work by stealth, and was even thinking about incorporating it to the hidden blade, made the one armed man dread the next time it was brought up. Privately, Malik hoped Altair's next idea wouldn't be <em>quite<em> so controversial.

Maria came in before Altair, an odd occurrence, and Malik immediately sought her out. She was fuming.

"It's a stupid idea and I hope you all vote against it," she hissed before he could even open his mouth.

Maria actually _disagreed_ with Altair? About running the Order? Just _what_ was he going to suggest?

He had little time to ask, however, as the grandmaster himself came in and everyone took their seats in the circle of chairs, Maria to Altair's left and Malik to his right.

"I understand that my ideas are different," Altair said slowly once everyone was settled. Rauf and the scholar Yazan smirked, Abbas out and out snorted. "I rely on all of you to tell me when I overstep my bounds and guide me when I make my decisions. Knowing how the last few meetings have gone, I hope this idea will be better received."

A few small chuckles.

Altair leaned back in his chair, a hand instinctively reaching out for Maria, who stoutly ignored it. Malik eyed the circle and saw several of the senior assassins note the divide, their faces becoming much more intent with the information they just received.

"Where is the _Assassyun_ Order most centrally located?"

Everyone frowned. "Here, in Masyaf," Rauf answered, the aging sword instructor shifting his weight.

"Where is the Templar Order most centrally located?"

"Cyprus," Nazim, senior informant, said.

"Where else?"

"Rome."

"Where else?"

"France."

"England."

Altair nodded. "There are at least four major centers for the Templars, and only one for Masyaf. They fight to enslave the entire world, and we only protect the Holy Land. We keep it safe, but the rest of Europe and Asia and Africa are at risk of being taken over by them. Then, too, there is the fact that they are less likely in the last few years to announce their presence. Finding them has become much harder - not because they are not here - but because they do not wear armor and red crosses. If things continue as they are, we would be overwhelmed by their forces if they made another direct assault on the Holy Land."

Several people shifted uncomfortably in their chairs, remembering when Masyaf had been attacked by Templars before - had managed to make it all the way to the keep and capture Al Mualim before Altair rode in and inspired everyone to take back their home.

"You've given this a lot of thought," the chief scholar Yazan said, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. "What is your idea?"

"Expand our borders."

"Impossible," Abbas said. "Our Order is too small, we cannot risk spreading ourselves as thin as you suggest."

"Fair enough," Altair said, conceding the point. "Let me reword: Expand our influence."

Silence befell the room.

Malik was immediately beset with math in his head. Abbas was right that the Order was small, at best they could muster ten thousand men if they called in everyone from the outlying Bureaus - numbers had always been their greatest disadvantage. Even with men as gifted as Altair or young Halim or Malik himself, who could fight and do the work of two or three people, still could not make up to the exuberant difference in forces. Communication was also a factor, even with carrier pigeons it took upwards of two weeks for word to get out to the farthest-reaching Bureaus they had. The chain of command would be an issue, too, and how could they finance...? Malik's head started to swim at the prospect.

Others, too, were sharing his opinion.

"How do you expect to pay for this?" Nazim asked. "We break even every year as it is, it would be irresponsible to tax the village more, we have their goodwill to think about as well as how they would feed themselves, and we don't have nearly enough men to do what you're asking. We couldn't even take over one city, not without bringing down the wrath of Salah ad-Din's sons or alerting the Templars of our motives."

"We belong here," Abbas said, his eyes hard and disapproving. "Our home is here, our _lives_ are here. Even the brothers assigned to other cities know that their home is _here_, we can't expect them to go gallivanting off to the farthest reaches of the Mediterranean and assault a city. That's suicide!"

"How do we communicate? Coordinate? It would take months to plan an attack, how much autonomy can the Bureau afford to have without become independent of us? We couldn't trust them if they didn't do as we say."

Altair smiled at that comment and looked at Malik before answering.

"What I am suggesting is this: we send someone, an envoy, a diplomat, someone who best represents the Order and its ideals, and we send him out to the designated city and create - not a Bureau - but an entire branch of the brotherhood as we have here in Masyaf. I am _not_ suggesting we act like soldiers; you are all right that we do not have the manpower for such an action. I _am_ suggesting, however, that we act like _assassyun_. We help local citizens, we perform favors, we ingratiate ourselves to the people, and then we recruit brothers and sisters to the Order. We teach them how to be _assassyun_, we show them how to run the branch we are creating, and we let them do it. They will then have complete autonomy to do what is necessary to keep the Templars at bay, and they have us and the other branches to fall back on if they fall into trouble."

Everyone stared.

Abbas was, of course, the first to speak. "We can't leave them independent! How could we trust them?"

The grandmaster looked to Malik again, the smirk crossing his scarred mouth briefly before answering. "A friend once told me some five years ago that a wise leader allows his men to do their jobs, to trust them to make the right decisions. It is arrogant to think that only we know what is best for the Order; Al Mualim thought that, and we all saw what his desire for lack of autonomy lead to."

"Then why do you _never_ listen to us?" Abbas demanded. "You started this meeting asking for our opinions but you are still going to do whatever you want regardless of what we say! In _spite_ of what we say!"

"No, Abbas," Altair said, his face serious. "Not regardless. I take everything you and the others say very seriously, none of my decisions are made arbitrarily or lightly. You all have trusted me to do what I think is necessary, the same way I trust all of you to do what is right. We are brothers; we share in every victory and success, as we do with every failure or disappointment. We are as one."

The chief village guard clamped his mouth shut and looked away, working his jaw.

"There is logic in what you say," Rauf said, trying to veer back on track. "I am not against the plan, but I want more details on how it would be carried out. Who would be sent as our representative?"

"It would have to be someone who embodies our Creed," Altair said.

"Then perhaps I should be the one to go," Abbas sneered, "since I know our traditions the best."

"No," Nazim said, deep in thought. "We would need a modern man for this, someone that children and teens would want to follow. If we're creating entire branches, we want to be able to recruit young."

"We should not limit ourselves to just the young," Yazan said, his old bones creaking in his chair, "even men of middling years can be convinced of our ideals, and while their training would be limited, it would give us the administration necessary to leave to the next city - we don't want someone spending ten years there just to train the novices."

"The Bureau, if we can still call it that, would have to be much bigger than even the one in Jerusalem," another senior assassin said. "A place for the brothers there to hide."

"We can still keep the hierarchy," another said, "If we reduce reports to quarterly, perhaps, or make some kind of uniform series of questions to answer, something standardized: Templar presence, political overview, that sort of thing. We could also link to other guilds to pool resources, putting less of a strain on us..."

Several such conversations began to erupt around the circle, and Malik glanced at Altair, who was grinning. The grandmaster looked at him and leaned over. "I was afraid they would dislike this."

"It would seem that even a novice like you can manage to be articulate when you put your mind to it," Malik replied with a smirk.

Maria was still huffing. "We _all_ know who's going to volunteer for this," she mumbled, crossing her arms and sinking into her chair. "And they are _all_ going to agree, damn them. It's a terrible idea, a bloody terrible idea."

* * *

><p>Malik stood above Acre's port, frowning severely. He looked down from his perch, watching ships come in and the passengers disembarking. Playing at his feet, content to spy the crowds and guess a random citizen's purpose were Altair's sons, Darim and Sef. Occasionally Darim would ask if the two could practice their climbing and Malik would watch them as they went to a lower roof and raced to see who could reach Malik's solitary form first.<p>

It was the only distraction he had as he waited.

Night was approaching and Malik called the boys to him, getting ready to return to the Bureau. Jabal had long since retired, no longer able to perform his duties as age had started to rob him of his mind.

"It's time to head back," he said, eyeing the haystack below them. He'd had it set up when he arrived in Acre, as practice for Darim and Sef.

Sef nodded, an eager smile of a boy still in childhood spread across his face. Darim, however, was looking out to the harbor with such intent concentration that Malik, for a brief moment, saw Altair within the nine-year-old's face.

Malik looked to the harbor, wondering what had caught the child's interest, and immediately saw what.

Or rather, who.

From the deck of a ship, staring at their exact position; was Altair.

Returned at last.

"Father!" Darim shouted joyfully and Sef echoed, though he couldn't spot the grandmaster in the crowd as his brother had.

Both turned to Malik and he gave the soft smile that only they ever saw and nodded. He jumped to the haystack first and watched like a hawk as Sef, then Darim, followed. From there they entered a hatch and descended through the building, giving a small nod to the owner who supported the Assassins.

They reached the dock quickly, but had to wait almost an hour as the crew set anchor and mooring lines, passengers crowding the deck with luggage waiting impatiently to embark. Darim and Sef waited with remarkable patience for their age. Malik, however, was growing quite _im_patient. Altair's latest journey to open up branches in the other cities had lasted longer than anticipated and, from various reports, had not been going well.

The Christians had been gearing up for another Crusade, intent on taking Jerusalem yet again, starting this time from Egypt and working their way north. Lack of money and demands of payment from the Venetians, however, made the Crusaders decide to attack one of the city's enemies, Zara. This eventually diverted further to assisting the Byzantine prince Alexios Angelos take the emperor's throne from his father's successor at Constantinople. While the Holy Land breathed a sigh of relief, the Assassins all held their breath, knowing Altair was there trying to set up another branch. Reports had become conflicted and scattered for the last year, but eventually Malik and the others had learned of the siege, the repeated attacks, and the three-day sacking of the city. Rumor (yet unconfirmed) was that it was a disaster worse than what the atrocities that had occurred in Acre a dozen years previous, when Crusaders slaughtered Saracen prisoners and Salah ad-Din retaliated by doing the same. Altair had sent no word for almost a year; Abbas had suggested they all assume him dead and hold a conclave to assign a new head. This was resolutely denied by not only Malik but all the other senior assassins, no one wanted to admit that their beloved grandmaster was dead just yet, the idiot was still in his prime and Malik knew the man would be damned before he died without securing at least Maria's welfare.

The steady stream of passengers and luggage finally started to dwindle as the sun finally set. At last, at the top of the plank, Altair and Maria stood, side by side.

And to Malik's shock and horror, Maria helped her husband down to the dock.

Altair limped, an arm around his wife for support, and his pallor was almost ghostly it was so pale. He appeared to have lost weight and Maria bore lines of worry around her mouth that only eased when she saw Malik and her sons.

"Malik," the grandmaster greeted quietly.

Malik said nothing, only moved to help Maria shoulder Altair's diminished weight.

The boys were tugging at their father's coattails, sensing the need to remain quiet. Together, they all helped Altair within the city walls until they found a secluded bench for Altair to rest on.

Altair was sweating and silently catching his breath.

With a severe frown at the clearly _idiotic_ novice before him, Malik knelt down to Altair's eldest.

"Darim," he said seriously, putting his hand on the nine-year-old's shoulder. "Do you remember how to get back to the _rafiq_ from here?"

The boy nodded, his face once more in fierce concentration that so mimicked Altair.

"Good. Go and talk to the _rafiq_. Tell him we need a horse and small wagon for your father."

Darim nodded again. "And a doctor?" he asked.

"No," Altair replied. "I merely tire easily. I have already been treated."

Malik's frown increased in severity and Maria matched him.

Altair glared right back at them both, his eyes as stubborn as theirs, before he let out a quiet sigh, wiping the sweat from his brow. "If you think it best," he said to Darim.

The eldest looked at his father with intense focus, then to Malik and his mother. He nodded and then ran off.

Sef glanced between the adults before joining his parents and climbing onto Maria's lap.

"It was a disaster," Maria said, clutching the seven-year old even while one hand continued to hold her husband's. "The Crusaders ransacked churches and monasteries alike, they raped everyone and everything in sight, burned entire districts to the ground. Worse, Pope Innocent - damnable name, the wretch - accepted the stolen goods with open arms and gladly let slide the fact that they attacked fellow Christians. He didn't even excommunicate any of them like he threatened."

Sef looked up "Ex-what?" he asked.

Maria looked to her child. "It's the worse thing that can happen to a Christian," she said softly, "It's when Paradise is denied to them because of their sins."

"But Paradise can only be made by people," Sef said, frowning. The seven-year-old looked to his father. "...Right?"

"Not all believe that, Sef," Altair said, grinning softly through his exhaustion. He reached out and ran a four-fingered hand through his boy's hair. "We must respect their beliefs, even when we do not agree with it." Something made him wince, and he leaned back against the wall, taking a deep breath.

"Were many lost?" Malik asked softly, taking a seat next to the grandmaster.

"Too many to count," Altair replied, his face hidden by his hood. "It was a massacre. Worse, the Byzantines were so embittered by their Catholic cousins that the new emperor, Mourtzouphlos, became a Templar. I am certain he has already indoctrinated his successors."

Malik groaned at the very thought. Constantinople was such a key city, a crossroads of the worlds! Like Jerusalem it held Christians - both Eastern and Western - and Muslims all in one city in harmony, is was the junction of Europe and Asia, and now it was under _Templar_ leadership. He sighed, knowing Altair had already had these thoughts and was likely cursing himself for it. He glanced at his best friend and could just see the man's eyes closed, the dark circles under them pronounced. He looked at Maria and she shook her head, even she did not know everything that happened in the city, but she knew it was bad as she once more looked to her husband.

"He tried to talk to the Venetians," she said softly, "To appeal to not to attack Christian cousins. He took part in the fighting, I was trying to get all the allies we made to safety. That was when the sacking started."

And he had been caught in the middle of it, bound by the Creed to protect the innocent and determined to prevent loss of life. No wonder he looked so terrible. Malik rubbed his face, knowing the next several weeks would be very difficult. Major setbacks hit Altair harder than most - he took them personally as he never had in his youth, and always he tried to understand what he could have done differently, how he could have known more. Malik suspected this would also lead to another long bout of studying the cursed Apple, and he never relished those times. If anything, they made Altair worse for it.

It was full dark by the time Darim arrived. Two journeymen worked a horseless cart and were quick to help Malik and Maria hoist the exhausted Altair onto it. The journeymen exchanged more than a few worried looks, and they all made quick time to the Bureau, the new _rafiq_ having already summoned a doctor. Altair recovered for a full week, much to his unceasing annoyance; but even he could not fight off all the angry adults, and when Darim proclaimed that he was just as worried as the others the grandmaster was forced to capitulate.

By the time they finally arrived in Masyaf his color was a little better, but his weight was still an issue as were the bags under his eyes. Maria and Malik took turns watching as he slept, nightmares making his rest hardly restful. Often he would wake up with a small gasp, almost fever-bright eyes darting around and assessing where he was before seeing their faces and relaxing. The report to the senior assassins was clinical and detailed, Altair's voice flat and soft. He dismissed the meeting almost immediately, and Malik shared a tense look with Maria before taking off after him.

"Altair!" he said, his footsteps light and rushed as he caught up to him.

"I am tired, Malik," the grandmaster said.

"Not tired enough that you're not going to look at that damned artifact," Malik accused.

Altair stopped, turning slightly, before resuming his pace. "I am sorry to drag you into this."

"Don't be sorry about doing me an honor," Malik berated, "Be sorry you were going to consult that stupid thing without me. How can I kill you if I don't know you're studying it?"

"I... As you wish," Altair conceded.

Together they walked through the narrow corridors and up an even narrower staircase to one of the parapets, where a small table and one of Altair's many journals lay open and ready. He had been planning this, Malik realized, had wanted to do it as soon as the disaster in Constantinople had happened. He sighed.

A week later he was still consulting the Piece of Eden. He had lost even more weight; Malik had to kick the artifact away from him in order to get him to come down to eat, and even then it was thin soup or millet, sometimes just a few cups of water, before he was back again. Malik passed word to the apprentices and novices about the change in locale. Various senior assassins paid their dues, expressing their concern and offering worried glances to their grandmaster.

Maria was, of course, a frequent visitor.

"Why can't I be here?" she demanded, irate. "What makes you so special when _I'm_ his _wife_?"

"Please," Malik said, "It is private."

"He's my _husband_, I have every right to be here! Why are only you given the 'privilege'?"

The _dai_ gave a deep, weary sigh, tired of the days spent watching his best friend. Slowly, he explained the promise: When Altair had begun studying the Apple, the artifact had nearly consumed him, driving him to a delirious fever and nearly killing Malik. Over time Altair had asked, cautiously, if the one-armed _dai_ would watch over him when he examined the Apple, asking him to kill him if he showed any sign of betraying the Order. It was the greatest right - the right to chose how one died and by whom - the highest honor and the greatest show of trust. "It is also," he added, "extremely personal."

Her round face softened, slightly, and she looked at Malik with different eyes. "He trusts you with everything, doesn't he?"

He turned to the reticent grandmaster. "Not everything. He tells no one of what he sees in that thing. Sometimes he finishes with a look of awe, but most times he comes back with a look of horror. It speaks of the past and of the future, and it seems both are terrible."

"Does it speak of us? What will become of us?" she asked in a quiet voice.

"If it does, he does not ask it. He would rather make the decisions himself; he was never one for following anything resembling the Divine."

"And yet he studies that."

"Because it is not Divine," Malik explained, "It is a tool, nothing more, and he thinks that if he studies it enough he will understand what its purpose is, and if he understands what its purpose is, he can either use it or put it away for those who can."

Maria frowned. "He used it once before, on Cyprus."

"Yes," Malik nodded, "And he hated himself for a long time afterward. No one's will should ever be controlled like that, and he hated that he could find no other way to stop the imminent bloodshed. I think that was why he decided not to keep it there, in the Archive at Limassol."

"... I wonder when he'll ever realize that he's just as human as the rest of us, and that he doesn't have to hold himself up to such high standards."

"... I don't know."

Maria sat with Malik after that, the two growing close in their shared worry for a man they both admired and respected.

It was some days later that Abbas came up looking for the grandmaster. Maria had left reluctantly to look after the children, agreeing to give Malik a break that afternoon.

"You mean to tell me he is _still_ with the Apple?" he demanded furious at the idea. "He hoards its secrets and manipulates all of us with his tightly held knowledge. Such corruption should not be allowed to run the Order!"

"He has not been corrupted yet," Malik said, frustrated and too worried to pretend to like this man. "Speak like that again without cause and I'll cut your tongue out."

The chief village guard growled. "You're just as possessed as he is."

Malik was perfectly willing to start a fight at that point, but a startled gasp behind him took the entirety of his attention, and he spun around to see Altair drop the Apple to the table, the silver curse rolling and dropping harmlessly to the floor. The grandmaster clutched his hands to his face, sinking forward and gasping.

"Altair!" Malik was by his side in an instant, his hand on his best friend's shoulder.

"... Malik..." the grandmaster gasped, dazed eyes peaking up at him from under the hood. "How long...?"

"Eleven days. We've been very worried about you."

"What did you see?" Abbas asked, his anger forgotten and an odd, almost hungry look on his face.

Shaking hands lowered and a haunted Altair gazed up, eyes unfocused. "... perversion... _jihad_..."

"A 'struggle'? ... Another Crusade?" Abbas demanded, suddenly intent, leaning forward and pressing his palms against the table. "Those Christians are going to attack us again?"

"... no... yes... no..." Altair whispered, shaking his head and struggling to regain his focus. He reached up and touched Malik's hand, somehow surprised to see it there. The _dai_ could only squeeze and reinforce the sensation. "Two great pillars, architectural miracles piercing the heavens... they fell. Thousands died. The fire... the screaming... the smoke... the destruction... it was catastrophic, worse than any I've witnessed before. I..."

At last his eyes snapped to focus. His eyes locked onto Malik, gripping his friend's hand with sudden fierceness, and his mouth snapped closed. He turned to look at Abbas, pale and drawn. "I do not know what I saw," he said softly. Honestly. "I do not know what it means. It matters not, regardless, for it will not affect there here and now." He closed his eyes. "It will not affect the here and now. It is not _here_," he whispered, more to himself than the other two men in the room.

"Well," Malik said, trying to sound gruff and utterly failing. "I think that's enough for now, don't you agree? You've hardly eaten and the paperwork has been piling up. I'll have to work you twice as hard now just to catch you up on what's been happening for the last year."

"... Not yet," Altair said, reaching up to rub his eyes. "I think... I want to see my sons."

Malik could not begrudge him that.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Notes:<strong> Ah... the Apple...

Though it's not stated overtly, Altair hints in a Codex page in AC2 that he witnessed the WTC attack on 9/11, and this was an hommage to that. Since those attacks the word _jihad_ has filtered into American vocabulary, often translated to "holy war." In our research for this chapter we were surprised to learn that this is NOT the correc translation. According to wikipedia, _jihad_ is most literally translated as "struggle," and its meaning is that a person of the Muslim faith does something to make his community better in some way, like volunteer work or helping a neighbor. We thought the irony of _Abbas_ making the connection to the Crusades (a "holy war") would help define his character more. We also made Altair - a little unclearly but he did just witness mass slaughter - point out that the word _jihad_ had been perverted in his vision. See? You're even educated when you read this fic!

Speaking of education, there's also a small blurb of research for the Fourth Crusade; Altair did try to set up a branch there when the Crusade started, and it seemed like the perfect time for him to be upset enough to consult the Apple. It's also a chance to show that Maria, who also suffers wanderlust, will on occasion go with him, leaving the godfather in charge of the kids, as is his duty, right, and privilege.

We also start to see Darim's personality, but there's more on him in later chapters.

Abbas gets a little time, too. He's hard to pin down, because he spends thirty years towing the line, and Altair nor Malik suspected a thing, so any argument he had (and we imaging he was _always_ arguing) had to be perceived as logical, even reasonable or pragmatic, and lost in the voices of all the OTHER dissenters. Altair couldn't have been very poplar in the beginning; we imagine he probably did too much too fast, and Malik was left smoothing things over whenever that happened. I mean, _poison_? That can't have gone over well...

**Extra Note:** A very astute reviewer asked why Altair was so affected by the 9-11 attacked when he effectively just witness the sacking of Constantinople and all the burning, raping, and pillaging that occurred. We had that same debate, and while we could be lazy and say "The Codex says so!" our logic was this: The Apple's abilities are never fully explained, so we wondered just _how_ Altair witnessed the attacks. Theoretically, it's possible that he could have witnessed it not as an individual, but as an entire world.

Er, let us explain that. Back in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries when Altair was alive, communication was about as fast as sea-winds or horses. It took days to weeks to months for word of the sacking of Constantinople to spread, and the concept of a "sacking of a city" would be pretty abstract because the people who hear it had, in all probability, never traveled there; didn't know what it looked like, didn't know anybody, etc. The further away from the city the news traveled, the less meaning it had. Similarly, the reason for the sacking of the city was very apparent: the Crusaders needed money to pay off the Venetians for all their ships and armaments so they could have their Crusade. The motives were obvious. Fast forward 800 years, however, and the speed at which information travels is measured in nanoseconds. There are photographs, videos, blogs, news channels, etc. So when the WTC was attacked, it wasn't just experienced by the people who live in NYC, it was experience by the entire world. Newspapers around the world printed it as their top story, people watched the news footage _as it was happening_, wondering _what it all meant_ and what it was all about. Nobody knew why it had happened until later.

In that light, imagine Altair experiencing the sacking of Constantinople as a single individual. Perhaps tens of thousands died, fire rape and pillaging, and all he had to experience it was what he himself saw. Imagine, now, the Apple showing him 9-11 and showing him what the _world_ saw, imagine the Apple making him feel what the _world_ felt - with the added confusion of Altair not understanding how the whole world could witness it of even that he was experiencing "the world" instead of "the individual." We imagine that would be terrifying - and by that logic we imagine it was worse than living through the destruction wrought on Constantinople.

Any rate, next up are the kids.


	4. The Children

**The Children**

"Mualim-ahu," a certain fourteen-year-old asked.

"That is your father's title, not mine," Malik refuted, refusing to look up from the report he was reading from Alexandria. Altair's work was incredible, and it looked like he was taking a liking to the city.

"Father is not my Mentor," Darim said, his voice defensive, "He is my _father_. _You_ are my Mualim-ahu, and I have a question."

"Then you will have to wait like all the other apprentices," Malik retorted, patently refusing to give the boy special treatment just because he was Altair's son. Silence followed, and Malik took comfort in the fact that Darim was much more pliable to orders than his younger brother was, and got back to work. For added affect, he made Darim stand and wait for twenty minutes as he did other miscellaneous things. He always made a point of doing that to the apprentices assigned to him; it taught them patience, and some of them were (eventually) smart enough to do something in the interim: train, read, study.

Darim was not yet that smart, and when Malik finally looked up to the boy he was utterly sullen and irritated. It reminded Malik so strongly of Altair in his teens he had to stop and rearrange his thought process. "Yes?" he said, finally.

The fourteen-year-old suddenly started fidgeting; clearly rethinking the questions he had waited to ask.

"Be out with it," Malik spat, lacking patience for the mood swings of teenagers.

"Mualim-ahu, I hear whispers," he said finally, "That the artifact Father studies is dangerous and that it corrupts him. All it does is glow and take Father away from us for days at a time. I would know what they mean."

"Because you are angry that the Apple takes your father away from you?" Malik asked, leaning back in his chair and studying the teen. Darim fidgeted, but he did not lower his eyes.

Of _course_ this would happen when his parents were away... Malik cursed Altair in every language he knew for producing such inquisitive and painfully direct children. Darim was almost a carbon copy of his father in demeanor: serious, quiet, and sometimes very intense. He was a diligent worker and had his father's eyes, but now as adolescence hit him he struggled with his very place in the Order, the son of the grandmaster. Should he mirror his father's precedence, or struggle to make his own? The inner conflict often created abrupt changes in opinion coupled with a haughty need to believe he was right. Malik prophesized a difficult adolescence and looked forward to when the boy was carted off to a city for training. Now, however, he held an opinion on the Apple.

The rest of his work would have to wait. Sighing, Malik pushed himself off the safety rails of the upper study, shaking his legs out from their contorted position and beckoned young Darim to follow him through the narrow corridors and up the narrower stairwell to the parapet where the grandmaster performed his studies. He unlocked the room and pulled out one of the scrolls Altair was working on. The grandmaster did not have the greatest mind for geometry, and so he had been forced to ask Malik to help with the compass and straightedge in order to reproduce the globe they had both seen floating over the silver ball after the death of Al Mualim. Altair had seen it many times later, he confessed, while studying the artifact, and he wanted a real copy of it. Pulling out the parchment he unrolled it and set it on the table, gesturing Darim to examine it.

"What is it?" the _dai_ asked.

The young teen stared at it intently, his eyes set in intense focus. "... I don't know."

"We did not either, when we first saw it. What do you recognize?"

Darim walked around the table, bending down and then straightening up, examining it from every angle.

"Wait," he said, "Is that... yes... this is the Holy Land, this is the Mediterranean, here is Cyprus - it is so tiny! - where my parents married. That means this is Rome and... and..."

"What is it?" Malik asked again.

"It is a map of the world," Darim said, awed.

"Then what is wrong with it?" the one armed assassin asked.

Darim looked up, surprised by the question, but knew with a glance what the answer was.

"There so many extra landmasses, these two here, this enormous island here, and down on the bottom..."

"What do we know about these lands?"

"... Nothing. Do they even exist?"

Malik nodded his head. "They do. Also, look at the coastlines."

Darim frowned and studied the map again. "I don't see the difference," he said slowly.

"You probably wouldn't," Malik sighed, "But the coastlines are wrong. In small ways, I doubt many other than cartographers would pick up on it."

"But... what does that mean?" Darim asked.

Malik pursed his lips, staring at the boy intently, and the teen straightened, realizing this was to be important.

"Coastlines are not permanent things, no matter what the Christian barbarism says, they change over time - very, very, slowly, I grant you, but they _do_ change. This map is the earth, but not today's earth. Rather an earth much, much later. Hundreds of years later."

Darim's eyes doubled in size.

Nodding and giving the information time to sink in, Malik re-rolled the map and put it back, leaning on the table. "When Al Mualim died," he explained, "The Apple showed everyone in the gardens that map, wrapped around a globe to match the shape of the earth. That is just one of the secrets that cursed artifact holds."

"So... it is a library, then."

"No," Malik said, shaking his head. "It is much more than that. Al Mualim used that Piece of Eden to control the hearts of minds of everyone in Masyaf; your father killed him to prevent the old man from using the village to take over the Holy Land. The Templars wish their hands on that artifact to control the entire world, everyone who lives on that map; a peace of a kind, where only a few reap the benefits and the rest are banned from thought. That thing's potential as a weapon is, as far as anyone can guess, limitless."

"Then it _is_ dangerous," Darim whispered to himself, eyes still a big a saucers. "They were right." He looked to his teacher. "It should be destroyed, no one can handle that kind of power! Why does Father still have it? Is it really corrupting him?"

Malik sighed, a hand going to his face to rub it. "That remains to be seen. He has held that thing for some sixteen years and has shown no sign of betraying the Order. All others before him fell to its taste within weeks of holding it."

"But why does he _keep_ it?" Darim demanded, his voice suddenly loud as emotion overtook him.

"What would _you_ do with it?" Malik demanded, his voice level but wrought with meaning.

"Destroy it!"

"_How_?"

Darim came up short.

He sighed again. "That artifact is made of no metal that any smith has ever seen before; its destruction will not be easy."

"Then bury it! Hide it! Seal it away!"

"_Where_?"

"_Anywhere!_"

Malik cuffed the boy on the back of the head for his idiocy, his patience at an end. "Foolish apprentice, have you heard nothing I've said to you? In the hands of anyone else they would go mad with power, anywhere we placed it would risk discovery and then the tragedy of Al Mualim would happen all over again! Where should it go? Cyprus? The Templars know of the Archive there, it was once theirs! Back in Solomon's Temple where we retrieved it? The Library in Alexandria? Flung from the mountains of Kwarezm where that madman Temujin is? One of those unknown landmasses? The bottom of the ocean? _Nowhere_ is safe for that damned artifact! It is a living terror, especially to your father! He of _all_ people knows the dangers of the Apple; he also knows how dangerous it would be to hide it anywhere. It _terrifies_ him that he can think of no other alternative, but as an _assassyun_ he understands the knowledge trapped there. One cannot burn a library, and the knowledge that little ball possesses puts every library on the earth to shame. What would _you_ propose?"

"I..."

"Exactly," Malik said, his voice low, almost a hiss. "Whatever happens to that damned artifact will be your father's decision, because he is the _only_ one on this entire mountain who can withstand its influence. Our job as assassins is to support his decisions."

"I thought our job was to think for ourselves, that no one is the boss of me," Darim accused, his youth making him bold. Malik slapped the back of the boy's head again.

"There are limits to everything, apprentice!" he shouted. "Even our own Creed holds contradictions, we cannot have completely free, independent thought; in order to survive we must have structure, and in order to have structure we must have a hierarchy, and in order to have a hierarchy we need a leader to makes the big decisions. What do you think would happen if anyone, you or Sef, or some newborn idiot had the right to decide who would next be assassinated? How could the village below be defended if no one wanted to do guard duty? How could a decision be made if nobody agreed? Nothing is true, everything is permitted, and that means that even when we strive to intellectual freedom and independent action we must still bow to the ultimate need for authority. It is why we have a Grandmaster, a Mentor, a Mualim-ahu, in the first place!"

Darim frowned deeply, his face a carbon copy of Altair's, and he stalked off, another mood swing making him retreat. Malik cursed his best friend for fathering such children and locked the parapet study up again.

When he returned to the upper study he drafted a letter to Altair explaining what had happened and giving a long and extended opinion on Darim, the burden of being a godfather, Altair's novice tendencies, and teenagers in general. It was dark by the time he finished, and by some miracle he was able to work through his first impulse and resist sending the letter right away. He waited until the next morning and reread the letter. The sleep had given him some space, and he had a novice dictate a new version of the letter, less heated but still pointed, and sent out the pigeon. No sooner had he sent it that Sef came darting in, the twelve-year-old's eyes wide and his mouth open.

"Mualim-ahu!" he said brightly.

"That's your father's title," Malik sighed, "Not mine."

"Darim says it's your title, since 'godfather,' sounds stupid because you're not our father and you're not god, you're something much better because you teach us when father isn't here and even when he is, so you're Mualim-ahu!"

... Malik couldn't decide whether to kill Altair's children or spoil them rotten.

"Be out with it," he said, sighing again. He took a seat this time, unwilling to spend the energy to walk over to the safety rails and sit on them.

"Some of the apprentices were talking!" he said, wide eyed. "They were talking about the differences between boys and men and what men could do with their swords just by touching them, and that looking as women can do things!"

Malik started cursing Altair again.

"How come you're not married?" Sef asked. "The boys said that they can only put their swords to good use when they're married, but you're the king of the swords, that's what Master Rauf says, and you're not married so is there a secret to it and how come girls have to affect swords? Do they have sorcery of steel? Will I get to do things with my sword when I get one? Why is touch so important?"

"Stop, Sef," Malik moan, rubbing his face and wondering if he would go prematurely grey because of these kids. "Just... stop."

"But I want to know! Knowledge is the most important thing to an _assassyun_, right?"

Damn Altair!

* * *

><p>Malik was currently relishing another period of time when Altair was in Masyaf and able to do paperwork with him. The grandmaster of the Order still wandered the world like an active Assassin, but whenever he returned, it seemed that the brotherhood was stronger and larger. Malik didn't think that even Al Mualim ever lead such a strong and vast Order as Altair did.<p>

Of course, this left Malik in charge whenever Altair wasn't in Masyaf and as such, Malik was the only one who ever knew the state of the mounds of paperwork needed for running the Order. Which made for a long time to catch up Altair whenever he came back, but he enjoyed poking the grandmaster into staying still for it.

It had been easier in recent years, as Darim was enjoying his apprenticeship in Jerusalem, leaving only Sef to distract Altair from his duties.

Of course, Sef was more of a distraction than Darim, so it wasn't much of an improvement. Darim was a stoic, serious child, with steady calm and a keen mind - adolescent bursts aside. Sef, by contrast, was a dreamer. Get Altair's youngest to work on a problem and he could come up with an unorthodox, yet brilliant solution. The problem was getting him to sit down and focus. He was a good assassin, but teaching him had proved thus far to be difficult. Only Altair ever seemed to be able to relate things to his youngest when Sef's head was up in the clouds.

As it was, Sef was a year behind, but he would be going on his own apprenticeship soon. Altair just had to decide on a city that would be good for Sef's strengths and had a _rafiq_ who could handle his dreaming tendencies. Alexandria was looking like a good choice, and as one of their newest additions to the Order, it would help show solidarity by sending a Masyaf-trained Assassin to the far-away city. And a son of the grandmaster, no less.

"Father, Mualim-ahu."

Speak of the child and he appears.

"Sef," Altair answered, looking up from his scrolls. Malik glanced up as well, finishing his tally of accounts.

"I have something important to speak to you about," the fifteen-year-old said, nerves evident despite Sef's attempt to hide them.

"Of course," Altair replied, setting aside his quill.

Malik sat back as well, wondering what had Sef standing so rigidly.

"I wish to marry."

To this, both Altair and Malik could only smile. Sef had a sweetheart in the village that he was head-over-heels for. And not in the typical teenage fashion, no, there was depth to that emotion. It was a running topic of conversation among the Assassins on how such a pretty little thing had grabbed Sef's mind, but there was no doubt that Sef looked at the girl for the beauty of her mind first, and not her body. A rarity for one his age and a key for a relationship that would last.

Altair and the rest of the council had agreed that they would arrange a marriage for Sef with the girl after his apprenticeship. To see Sef taking it so seriously as well was a welcomed change of pace and one that Malik and Altair both felt a surge of pride in.

"Of course," Altiar said softly, pride in his voice. "I have already been speaking with her family. When you return from Alexandria, we will have a wedding for you two. I applaud and approve of your choice-"

"No," Sef interrupted. "It must be now."

Malik frowned, sensing something was missing.

Altair, however, gave a light chuckle. "So impatient," he replied. "Your love for her is like mine for your mother. It will be just as strong after your apprenticeship, if not stronger. You can wait a few years."

"No, Father," Sef shook his head. "It must be now."

"I don't understand."

"... She's with child."

...

Malik wasn't sure how to react first: anger, shock, embarrassment, or dejected resignation. Sef stood there, fifteen, trying to look a man with an unnaturally straight back and eyes staring straight ahead. The one armed _dai_ remembered when he'd been forced to teach the boy about the facts of life, about "swords" and women and what it meant to marry. The boy's curiosity grew exponentially after that; he should have _known_ this was going to happen, Sef spent _much_ too much time down the mountain with that girl.

Altair, meanwhile had become stone still.

Simply, almost silently,

"What?"

Sef gulped. "She... she is pregnant, Father."

Even quieter: "How?"

"I.. I don't know," the boy said. "Well, I mean I do, but I don't know how this happened. I mean, I know how this happened, but... but... I didn't expect... I didn't think... we weren't... she said..."

Altair slammed a fist onto the table, startling the boy so much color drained from his face. He looked younger, now.

The grandmaster glared at his son from under his hood. "Do not stammer. How?"

The novice's voice cracked as he verbally tripped over himself to answer. "Two... two months ago I was helping her deliver sandals for her father. We waited for the customer at his house until almost dark. She said it was too dark for me to go up the mountain, she offered dinner at her home, but the neighbor said her parents had been called away to her sister in Damascus, she had given birth to her first son. The neighbor said I could stay the night. The two of us, we talked for hours, she was so beautiful in the moonlight... and she was so warm... so soft... I... she... we started to kiss and... my body started to-"

"We can imagine what happened after that," Malik cut in quickly, before the humiliation could get any worse. Altair was still utterly still, and so Malik asked the next question. "She is certain she is with child?"

Sef's voice cracked again as he stared at his father and mentor. "She... she said her cycle has stopped. I don't know what that means, exactly, but she assured me it meant she was with child. Her parents are still in Damascus; she doesn't know what to do. She's... she's terrified. I want to help her..."

"You've done enough," Altair said. At last his head turned, very slightly, to lock his eyes onto Malik. "Get Maria," he said.

The _dai_ did not need to be told twice. Malik darted from his perch without shaking out his legs, stumbling slightly as he made his way down the steps into the gardens. Oh, those children were giving him more grey hairs than Altair _ever_ would! He wasn't even fifty yet! A child! And the boy wasn't even _married_; he wasn't even a _man_, yet! Even the idiot grandmaster knew better than to explore a woman until he was married, propriety seemed to mean nothing to children these days. A child! Altair's first grandchild... Malik shook his head, still uncertain what his first emotion should be and his heart seemed to have decided to feel all of them at once. He groaned deep in this throat and put a hand to his face to rub it, dreading Maria's reaction to the news.

She was in the lowest tier of the garden with some of the women, talking to them about the men that had visited them and devising ways to best help them. She glanced up to see the one armed _dai_, and his expression seemed to tell her enough because she was already making her excuses and getting up, meeting Malik halfway up the hill.

"Is he studying the Apple again?" she asked in concern.

"No," Malik answered, a little surprised at the question. Did his face look that bad? "But he is deciding on whether or not to kill his youngest son."

Maria groaned just as Malik had done. "What's he done now?" she asked, knowing her dreamer boy all too well.

"Created a child."

Color completely drained from Maria's face as the blunt truth hit her, and then it turned pink, and then red as she blew past Malik and up the hills to the upper study, curses falling out of her mouth. Altair had been quiet, but Maria was anything but as she marched up the stairs and then hit her son squarely on the head. "You tramp! What have we told you your entire life? Respect those around you, including the women - especially the women! Think before you act! Consider the consequences of your actions! The relationship between a man and a woman is sacred! Spiritual! It is love at its deepest level! Do you love her?"

Sef squeaked. "What?"

"_Do you love her?_" she repeated.

"What kind of a question is that?" Sef tried to demand, rubbing his head and backing away.

"Yes or no?" Maria demanded, not allowing for his retreat and instead stepping forward, into his personal space. "If you loved her you would have waited! If you loved her you would have thought about the consequences! If you loved her you wouldn't have _taken_ her!"

"Hey, wait!" Sef cried out. "I didn't 'take' her! You misunderst-"

"She's _fifteen_, Sef!" Maria cried out. "She doesn't know any better! _You_ don't know any better! Where were her parents? Why weren't you supervised? Do you have _any_ idea what's going to happen now?"

"I was hoping we would get married and-"

"And _what?_" his mother demanded, her voice shrill. "And hope that this would all go away if you did?"

"No! You're putting words in my-"

"You have no right to speak!"

And Sef; daydreaming, cloud watching, wind riding Sef; for the first time in his life, shouted back.

"I have _every_ right to speak!" His voice bounced off every wall of the study, no longer cracking but a deep tenor, almost a baritone. "_Yes_, I love her! _No,_ I did not _take_ her. I've already admitted to Father that neither of us were really thinking, and we _both_ understand the situation we've put ourselves in. I'm more than willing to take responsibility for my actions, it's why I'm going to marry her - I've wanted to since the moment I first talked with her - even Father and Mualim-ahu said they would arrange it when I finished my apprenticeship - and before you say it _no_, I'm not making this decision lightly! I want to protect her, I want to spend my life with her, I assumed we would have children together, so it's happening just a little sooner than we all expected. This isn't... this isn't a _mistake_, Mother, this is _love_!"

Malik watched in horror as Maria went from red to purple, sucking in a breath to start shouting again, but a hand that was not Malik's touched her shoulder, and both adults turned to see Altair had at last moved, was standing and staring at his son. His hood still hid his eyes, but Malik could read his body language, the set of his shoulders, and angle of his feet.

"A child," he said softly, gently guiding Maria out of his way. "A child is a terrifying thing. It is the ultimate trial: to raise and train a child to be the best of their ability; there are no instructions, no directions: guidance from one can be poison to another and visa versa. It will follow you for the rest of your life, you will forever wonder and second-guess your decisions, it is the one thing that will ever pull your head from the clouds, the ultimate responsibility. Are you ready for it?" He stared at his son intently.

Sef looked down, frowning, before he gave his answer. "... Were you?"

And Altair smiled, gripping the boy's shoulders before pulling him into a tight embrace. "You have chosen a difficult path, Sef, but with luck it will be the most fulfilling. We ride to Damascus, all of us; we must meet her family and talk."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Notes:<strong> No matter who you are, kids _will_ be the death of you. Without fail. :D

So this chapter was about the kids, one for Darim, one for Sef, and now you know what personalities we gave them. Darim we picture as having a bit of a turbulent childhood (re: teen-hood) as he tries to figure out where he stands. He's similar to Altair and he knows it, and struggles to figure out who he is in terms of that. We think it makes the ten years spent traveling with Altair over in the wilds of present-day China looking for Genghis Khan all the more important - he came into his own in that journey, in our opinion.

Sef... :D All we know about Sef is that he got married "really young." There had to be a reason for it, and we imagine this kind of thing happened a thousand years ago as easily as the do today, and parents will whine and moan about decisions kids make these days the same way they do now. Poor Altair. Poor _Malik_, this all happened on his watch, per se. At least Sef is wise enough to take responsibility for his actions (which doesn't seem to happen much in the present) and be a man about it. Maria the spitfire might not notice it, but Altair does and, well, he's just sort of cool like that.

Our beta happily informed us that when she read this chapter she burst out laughing in the middle of class (shame on her for not doing schoolwork!) when she realized what Sef had done, and her friend shrugged it off saying "She's just fangirling. Move along, nothing to see here." In light of that, by all means, let us know what you all though when you read this!

Also, we wanted to us the Arabic word for Mentor, since the title is so important in the game and because there's very little Arabic used given the influx of Italian (and Turkish) in the game. Not knowing a lick of Arabic we went to Google translate, and the first word it gave us was... Al Mualim. (facepalm) Obiviously we didn't use that, but one of the other suggestions was Mualim-ahu, and since we've no idea how it's transliterated, we hope this is appropriate. If anyone out there actually _knows_ Arabic and can do better, please let us know.

Next chapter: Altair shares his past with Malik.


	5. The Lost History

**The Lost History**

"Look at these," Rauf whispered, eyeing the object with amazement. Malik and the other senior assassins were doing the same in the training ring, marveling at the work Altair had done: A dozen right handed hidden blades. The design was like nothing anyone had seen.

"They are remarkable," the newly installed Ibtisam whispered, having retired from being _rafiq_ of the Damascus Bureau and being promoted to the senior council of assassins.

"They do not sever the finger," Nazim, the senior informant said.

"What kind of metal is this?" the aged Farasat asked, the pickpocket master turning it over and over in his hand.

Altair finished strapping one of the new blades on his right wrist; with a flick of the wrist it extended, and when the grandmaster curled his fist the blade fell level with his fingers. Another twist and the blade disappeared with a soft _shnk_ sound. Crouching he extended the blade - and his proper hidden blade, and held a tight guard. The blades extended well beyond his hands, and with a few simple gestures the entire senior council marveled as they realized the blessing this would be in combat. Malik quickly darted to a weapons rack and pulled out a sword, taking a few small, simple swipes as Altair demonstrated how strong the new hidden blades were, easily deflecting the sword as Malik worked in stronger and stronger strikes, the king of swords marveling at what he was witnessing.

"Incredible," Rauf said, "_incredible_. It changes everything!"

"Not everything," Altair said. "The metal needed is a compound of no less than three different ores, the formula is difficult and the raw materials are not native to this region. It took two years to acquire the materials for me just to experiment. The work itself is also time consuming. I would advise we keep only these dozen."

"You are hoarding again," Abbas accused.

"No," Altair said, "I am being pragmatic. Everyone can be trained in its use, and we can hand them out for the most difficult assignments, to our most trusted assassins."

"You'll take one for yourself, then," Rauf said shrewdly, eyeing the master assassin, "when you leave."

"Yes," he answered simply, straightening and sheathing his blades.

His upcoming departure left Malik uneasy, and he shifted on his feet uncomfortably. He watched as Altair answered the slew of questions about the new hidden blade - between this an the superior armor he had created the senior assassin's were marveling at Altair's "dabbling" in blacksmithing - and germinating ideas on its use and suggestions on who could be trusted to use it. The Mentor was patient and thorough, eventually dismissing the meeting to let them eat - it was well past midday now. Malik lingered, eyeing his best friend with a fierce frown.

"Brother, what is troubling you?" Altair asked, clasping a hand on the _dai's_ shoulder.

"The Mongols," Malik said slowly, walking with him, "Are you certain they are such a threat?"

"I am surprised," the grandmaster said, "It's rare indeed to see you disagree with a thought that I've had. Even _Abbas_ thinks it a wise idea that the threat be taken care of."

Malik snorted, rolling his eyes. "We are not young men anymore, Altair," he said. "You're fifty-two years old. This is not the same as going off to set up another branch of the Order - those can be done in a year, but Khan, he travels all around the East, finding him will be a challenge, and how old will you be then? Will you still be able to take him on?"

The hand on his shoulder squeezed as they entered the keep, the guards bowing to the most respected men in the Order.

"Your concerns are more than justified," Altair said, "I worry, too. But no one else has volunteered for this assignment, and it cannot be ignored. It is why I put so much effort into making the extra hidden blades in the last few months. I want the extra protection. Maria will be traveling with me, and Darim has volunteered to help. He's just finished his training in Jerusalem, Halim gave him a glowing review, and it will be a good way for him to grow into his skills. I am not the brazen novice I was in the past, I will be careful."

Malik sighed, resigned. "I know. Were that I could go with you."

Altair smiled. "I wouldn't have anyone else with me," he said with deep conviction, surprising the _dai_. "But it is because I trust you so much that I leave the Order under your capable care. You have been extraordinary in my absences before."

"Will the Apple go with you?"

"Nowhere else is safe for it," the grandmaster conceded. "But it will not be used. I have not used it in years; have not needed it in years. This will be no different."

"I hope so, I won't be there to kill you if you finally go mad."

The laugh Altair gave was soft and warm, a chuckle at an old joke.

The pair walked up the stairs and to the gardens. Several women came up to greet them, always pleased when the grandmaster and his second came for a visit, before Maria called them back to get to work. They walked lazily down the tiers until they reached the bottom, the two men looking out over the breathtaking mountain vista. Kadar loved this view, it was his favorite in all of Masyaf, and thinking of his brother made Malik smile slightly, always a little sadly, and he deeply wished Altair would not leave him as soon as Kadar did. Altair had become his second family; he was a close friend to Maria and viewed Darim and Sef as his own sons. He wasn't sure he could handle the loss.

"I would ask a favor," Altair said softly, utterly relaxed as he looked out to the mountains.

"Name it."

"Look after Abbas."

The request was so strange that Malik took several seconds to absorb it. "He's a grown man, Altair, as old as we are. He doesn't need 'looking after.' "

Altair shook his head and turned to look at Malik fully. "You do not understand, but that is perhaps my fault. I have told no one of this."

Malik frowned. "... Of what?"

Altair, the Eagle of Masyaf, Grandmaster of the _Assassyun_ Order, afraid of no one and no thing aside from a little silver ball, shrank back, wincing at a thought. "Do you remember the siege Salah ad-Din launched on Masyaf when we were children?"

"Yes. Kadar clung to me all night crying, and Mother kept coming in telling us to be quiet. I was very angry that I wasn't up at the keep and part of the excitement." He shrugged his shoulders. "We were boys."

"... Were that my memories of the attack were so innocent," Altair murmured, almost to himself. "No, that is not entirely true. I, too, was in hiding. Father was there before Al Mualim summoned him. He died."

"Oh..." Malik said, eyes widening. "I'm sorry."

"I have grown past what happened that night," Altair said, turning and looking out over the vista. "Abbas... he has not. Both of our fathers were out that night; my father managed to escape but Abbas' did not. Salah ad-Din tortured him into giving up my father's name. The peace treaty that Al Mualim was negotiating with the Saracens, Salah ad-Din made it contingent on sacrificing the life of my father, who had killed a noble in his escape. An exchange: my father's life for Abbas'."

Malik stared, having never known any of this. Al Mualim had kept the details of the siege very close to his chest, saying details did not inspire confidence in the brotherhood, mystery did. All anyone knew was that the brotherhood had held off the entire Saracen army, and scared them so much that they signed a treaty instead. How did Altair know any of this, then?

Altair put a hand on the low stone fence, shifting his weight slightly before continuing. "My father agreed. ...I had snuck out of sight, wanting to see the brotherhood in action, thinking I would witness a great battle. Instead, I watched my father die."

"Altair..."

The grandmaster shook his head, smiling slightly, sadly, showing he had accepted the horror he had witnessed. Malik felt a turmoil of emotions in his gut, thinking of his own father, of when he heard that he had died and how he felt back then; of Kadar and the bloody battle with de Sable, watching his brother die.

"It was, perhaps, a week later," he continued. "Abbas' father came to me in the dead of night, confessing everything to me. He was in tears, blaming himself for giving up my father's name and begging forgiveness. He wanted to atone for what he thought was an unforgivable sin and he... he cut his throat in front of me."

"_What_?" Malik hissed. He had been ten years old!

"Looking back on it now," Altair said, "It was a proud moment. He had reclaimed his lost honor and died as an _assassyun_, but... I did not understand it as a child. It frightened me, and I ran to the Master. He made me swear to keep it a secret, all of it. I don't know what he did with the body. That summer all the ten year olds were taken to the keep for training - I was already living there because of my father's death. Abbas and I, we shared quarters. He had been told his father had left the Order and would eventually return. He believed his father a hero and waited anxiously for any news of him. Of course there was none, and as time moved forward he became deeply troubled by it. We... we were close friends at the time, and I did not like seeing him struggle. When we were twelve I told him the truth - I was trying to help him, reassure him, but instead... it broke him. The next day he asked Libab, our old trainer, to use real swords, and he tried to kill me."

Malik blinked. "The fight," he said. "All the novices saw it, nobody knew what it was about."

"I did not know how deeply I had hurt him," Altair sighed, leaning forward and putting his weight on his elbows. "Not until he almost killed me. Abbas demanded I take it back, that I admit I had lied. I wanted to undo the damage I had done, to fix the rift I had unwittingly created, and I acquiesced. I said I lied."

Rubbing his face, Malik leaned forward, too, putting his elbow on the stone fence and supporting his chin with his hand. A soft breeze kissed their faces, the sun setting behind them and lighting the mountains in fierce golds and cooler blues. The shadows grew much deeper before Altair started talking again.

"We were thrown to the cells for a month after that, and we were never the same again. I was apprenticed to Baasir in Jerusalem, but Al Mualim kept Abbas here, in Masyaf for his training. He has hated me ever since."

Malik nodded, things he had witnessed for the last twenty-five years making sense at last: Abbas' knee-jerk reaction to disagree with everything Altair said, his bitter and spiteful looks, all of it fell neatly into the image of a broken, bitter, angry man. He sighed. "Why do you keep him on the senior council? It is clear he hates you even now."

Altair nodded, his hands loose in the open air. An eagle screeched somewhere above them.

"Whatever his opinion of me is, he is a good assassin. His defense of Masyaf has proven capable several times, and he is not afraid to question me - whether he knows it or not his opinion deeply affects my decisions; he debates with fiery passion and can make me think through my own ideas more thoroughly and thoughtfully. Also, with the focus of his anger on me it prevents him from doing something self-destructive or hurtful to the Order. But now I am leaving, and as you said, this will not be a short assignment. A year's time is not enough for one like Abbas to look beyond his immediate hate, but I fear what several years can produce in him. And so I ask you if you can look after him."

The first star twinkled over the northernmost mountain, and the chill of high altitude wind ghosted over the gardens.

Malik shook his head slightly. "And after fifty years I at last see just how soft you really are under that reticent frown and novice arrogance." They both chuckled, flat in light of all that Malik had learned. He turned and gave his grandmaster his complete attention. "I will do what I can."

"That is all I can ask."

* * *

><p>Malik leaned back in his chair, stretching, as the other senior assassins did the same, the meeting concluded. Malik sank into the cushions of the chair, crossing and then recrossing his legs. Twenty years of contorting them around safety rails and tables and other things left them achy, it seemed, as he approached old age. He took to chairs and desks more, and he realized he was not as young as he used to be. Looking out across the circle, he looked at Rauf, now well into his seventies, and Ibtisam, the former <em>rafiq<em> of Damascus, in his eighties. Abbas, too, was fifty-seven as Malik was, and the chief informant Nazim was in his late sixties. The younger members, too, were not that young; in their late forties.

The one armed man chuckled slightly. "Look at us," he said, "We are a collection of withered old men."

Ibtisam, the oldest of the group, made a haughty sound. "Ha! Speak for yourself."

The retired swordmaster Rauf laughed, too. "They say that age is proof of wisdom. I suppose this must be the wisest council ever assembled."

Malik smiled. "I remember when I first took my place on the council," he sighed, reminiscing. "Altair had just forgiven the assassins for attacking brothers after Al Mualim's death. His next order of business was to drag me into helping him clean up the mess he'd made by naming me his second; and then he put me in charge of figuring out how to make everybody like each other again."

"Yes, I remember," Rauf said, smiling. "He kept tossing ideas to me and then some time later you would come to me with the same idea. It took almost a month before I finally managed to throw you two into a room and get you two to talk to each other. Things went much smoother after that."

"Truly?" Forty-nine year old Aamil, chief scholar asked. "I had not heard this story."

Rauf was more than happy to explain: "That was a hard winter for us. Saracens and Crusaders picking at each other from a distance, the mountain passes buried in more snow that we'd seen in twenty years, and a divided Order uncertain what it's new direction was going to take. We all had to learn from scratch how to be _assassyun_ and what the Creed meant. Altair had only just redeemed his honor, many brothers were weary of him, and nobody knew what to make of young Malik, he was utterly unknown and missing an arm and determined to prove to the world that he didn't need it."

Malik groaned at the memories. "I was so quick to anger then," he admitted.

" 'Then'?" Ibtisam asked. "You think you have mellowed since then?"

"You think I haven't?"

Everyone chuckled.

"The fights those two would have were legendary," Rauf continued. "Wherever they were in the castle you could hear them shouting at each other whenever their opinions differed."

"Which was always, I'm sure," the aged Ibtisam said.

"Not always," Malik said, suddenly defensive. "We... we weren't used to trusting each other yet, we were close as boys but had spent many years apart during our apprenticeship, and Altair's disgrace had brought hatred to me. We had to learn to work together all over again."

"Hence my locking them in a room together," Rauf concluded. "They shouted at each other for days."

"Not days," Malik muttered.

"I'm the one telling this story," Rauf said, smiling. He turned to the rapt Aamil. "It was days, believe me. All sorts of accusations, insults, phrases that would turn any seasoned assassin into a blithering novice. And then, then there was quiet."

Aamil turned to Malik, itching to ask what had happened, but a flat glare from the temporary grandmaster silenced him.

"He probably used the Apple on him," Abbas said with a grin, and everyone else in the room chuckled.

Everyone left soon after that, and Malik waited until they were all gone before standing. His legs hurt and he knew he would need to schedule time to stretch and work out. Some time in the ring with the novices would help - how did Altair find time to do everything he did, including consulting the Apple? Groaning, he rolled his back and felt every single vertebra pop before rolling his shoulders and his neck. He felt better for it and exited the lower library and climbed the stairs to the upper study. Abbas stood at the window, looking out over the training ring, his hands clasped behind his back. Something in his stature made the _dai_ weary; he remembered the tale Altair had spun of the bad blood between them, and forced himself to relax. Abbas hated the grandmaster, not Malik, and he could not judge Abbas because of his childhood. He, too, had hated Altair once, and because of that he harbored a small corner of sympathy for the old lion. He tried to remind himself of that as his body tensed.

"You were right," Abbas said, turning to face the _dai_. "The council of senior assassins is old. We need younger faces, younger ideas. I have a few in mind, if you are interested."

"It is a good idea," Malik said, slowly, fighting his instincts. "I wouldn't mind seeing the list of names, but I'd rather not make a major decision like that without the grandmaster present."

A muscle tightened in Abbas' jaw. "He has not been here for five years. The odds of his even returning are too low for even gamblers who like long odds. You're the appointed grandmaster in Altair's steed, it would do you good to make some large decisions without constantly going to him for guidance."

Malik's own jaw tightened, and a frown pressed against his face. "Are you insinuating something?"

"Nothing of the kind," Abbas said easily, his voice sounding oily in Malik's ears. "I'm merely making an observation: you are in charge of many things - especially when Altair is away, and for all your grousing and groaning that he is absent you are perfectly capable and within your rights to make changes. And yet, you do not. I simply wonder why that is."

"I make no changes because there is no _need_ to make changes," Malik said. "Altair has made this Order stronger than it ever was before, we are larger and tighter, our foundations are strong and reinforced with the initiatives he has made. What changes could you possibly be suggesting?"

Abbas snarled, stepping forward and into Malik's personal space. "He has spat on one tradition after another, undoing the very thing that _makes_ us assassins. Loving children, hiding and stealth, burning bodies, _poison_. He sits at that desk," he hissed, pointing to the table behind him, "And he mocks us while he cuts out another piece of our Order!"

"You are out of line," Malik said.

"No! _You_ are out of line for never asserting yourself. I know there are principals he's instituted that you disagree with and we all remember the fights the two of you had when this all began. He killed your brother and stole your arm, and yet somehow that is all forgotten as you sit there, docile and compliant, as he breaks down our very existence. Maybe he really _did_ use the Apple on you."

Malik's reaction was instantaneous. Even at fifty-seven, he was still one of the deadliest men in the brotherhood and he had long since mastered how to work with only one arm. Abbas didn't know what hit him and suddenly the other assassin was flat on his back, Malik pressing a knee on his chest while one of the new hidden blades Altair had created pressed into the old lion's neck. Abbas glared, full of spite, up to the _dai_ and Malik slowly counted to ten in four different languages, fighting his temper. When he could think straight, he spoke.

"I would like to make one thing perfectly clear," he said in a low, menacing voice. "Never, _never_ speak like that again, or I won't be so merciful. I won't deny your right to hate Altair, we've all hated him at one time or another, and we've _all_ disagreed with him at one time or another - but all of us, except you, have learned to see past that initial rise of ire and indignation to _listen_; and it is when we listen that we learn. Knowledge is one of the founding principals of the Order and the one bent on ripping that away isn't Altair, it's _you_."

"Mualim-ahu?" a startled voice from behind said.

Malik got up quickly and gracefully, retracting his hidden blade and giving a hard glare at Altair's son Sef, his emotions still roiling in his gut. "What?" he snapped.

"... The girls wanted to know if you would come over for dinner," the twenty-five year old said, slowly, eyeing the scene. "They know you are busy but girls can be girls, and I really can't say no to them, they are so beautiful and..." his voice trailed off, staring at Abbas on the floor and Malik's black face. "Is everything alright?" he asked.

"Yes," Malik said quickly. "Everything is fine, I was just demonstrating a move to Abbas, here. We're both old men and sometimes we forget that we are growing fragile."

Sef smiled, a little strained. "You'll never be fragile, Mualim-ahu," Sef said. "You're invincible, much like Father."

"No one is invincible," Abbas spat, getting up and glaring. "Remember that, boy." He stalked off, and as soon as he was gone Sef turned to Malik.

"What happened?" he asked quietly, any levity in his normal demeanor gone.

"Not here," Malik said, shaking his head. "Walk with me."

"Yes, Mualim-ahu."

"That's your father's title," the _dai_ groused, trying to pull his emotions back together.

"To everyone but Darim and I," Sef answered before adding, "Perhaps just myself. I don't know what Darim calls Father anymore, he may have started calling him Mentor, I don't know. But you will always be Mualim-ahu to me, because you taught me how to be an assassin when Father was afraid of being partial, and you supported me with my wife when you didn't have to." The two passed into the garden, several girls moving up to greet them.

"Master Malik!"

"Master Malik!"

The _dai_ smiled and greeted them, Sef doing the same. Malik had inherited the training of the girls since Maria had left with her husband; he in turn deferred it to one of the senior women there, Umayma, but he checked in often and tried to see to their needs. A familiar face in the garden, they always made a point of walking up to him. They eventually departed, however, and he and Sef made their way to the lowest tier.

They looked out over the impressive vista, Malik remembering a conversation with Altair before he left here, over Abbas. The repetition did not escape him. After a while, Sef asked, "What happened?"

"I saw a side of Abbas," Malik said, grim. "I knew it existed, your father told me of it, but I never imagined it was as ugly as that."

The boy frowned, his face echoing Altair's, before he turned and asked, "Do you want to talk about it? I'm told I'm a good listener."

In spite of his mood, Malik smiled. "Your children have done you a great service," he said, shifting his weight slightly. "You've matured in the last decade in ways nobody would have pictured when they knew you as a child." Sef shrugged and smiled, his dreamer eyes still as bright as they were in his childhood. The moment passed, and Malik started to explain. "There is a lot of bad blood between Abbas and your father," he said. "He hates him vigorously, and only now have I realized how deeply. I had thought... but hatred is a dark emotion, and in the end I see a little of myself in him."

Sef blinked, straightening, surprise coloring his features. "_You_? Hated _Father_?"

His earnest confusion made Malik chuckle slightly, and somehow he felt better knowing that _that_ much time had passed. Sometimes it seemed just yesterday. "Surely you know the story of your father's disgrace?" he prompted.

"Yes," Sef said, "He snuck into Solomon's Temple to steal the Apple and failed. He broke the tenants of the Creed and Al Mualim stripped him of rank."

"Do you know the details?"

"... No," Sef said, frowning. "Father always became very quiet about it. The most I ever got out of him was that the damage he did was too great to do it justice in his storytelling."

Sighing, Malik replied, "He would say that. He broke all three tenants of the Creed. He killed a miner to gain access to the tunnels. He chose to expose himself to de Sable and pick a fight. He compromised the Brotherhood, too, but not in the way that Al Mualim decreed. _He_ did not lead the Templars to Masyaf, not directly at any rate. But he did leave two brothers to deal with de Sable: my brother, and myself."

He waited, watching Sef's face as he absorbed the information and put the pieces together. Invariably, his eyes widened as they trailed down to Malik's stump; the look didn't bother him any more - not much any way. The boy's hand went up to almost cover his mouth, and his eyes started to blink rapidly. "Oh, Mualim-ahu," he whispered. "I never realized... And your brother, you always said he died, was that...?"

Malik nodded, unapologetic. "Yes. I lost my brother and my arm that day; and I hated your father. I hated him so much I wasn't rational - though I didn't realize it at the time. For the three weeks of recovery I went through after the surgery I kept banging on Al Mualim's door demanding that Altair die for what he had done to me. I couldn't stand that he was still alive, I hated Al Mualim for favoring him yet again."

"What happened?"

"He punished me by making me the _dai_ of Jerusalem, the city where Altair was apprenticed." Malik turned slightly, looking up to the keep and it's towers. "I was bitter and angry and completely irrational in my hatred. I spent my nights rationalizing how I could kill Altair and justify it to Al Mualim. It was... a dark time in my life."

Sef blinked, shocked, taking several minutes to absorb the information. Malik let him have the time, reminiscing himself. It felt good - if that was the right word - to know that so much time had passed that people forgot of the hatred that had festered between he and Altair. Sometimes it felt just like yesterday, the anger would swell up within him suddenly, and he would wonder just _what_ he was doing supporting Altair as he had. Those were the nights when his arm hurt the worst, and he would pace the halls trying to work through his mood. Altair often was up those nights as well, disturbed by whatever phantoms the Apple had shown him, and the two would sit on beams overlooking Masyaf, contemplating in quiet companionship. They grew close in those silences; both fighting their inner demons and helping each other come out on top.

"How...?"

Malik nodded to himself. "Jerusalem turned out to be a boon. People who thought the world of your father surrounded me, but more importantly they knew about him as a man. I learned, very slowly, who Altair was and it did not match with the image of him that I had created. Your father had his own share of problems during his apprenticeship before Solomon's Temple, and it took a long time for me to see it." He took a deep breath through his nose, exhaling slowly. "In the end, he apologized, and that was when I realized that the man I hated was a phantom, not real, and so I put it away. Abbas... he never put it away; he never learned to see the difference between the Altair in his mind and the one standing in front of him." He looked to Sef. "It has been eating away at him for thirty years, and only just now did I realize it will destroy him."

Sef nodded, his eyes dark. "Mentor, perhaps it is an ill time to admit it, but Darim and I never liked him."

Malik blinked. "Oh?"

"He told us we were half-Templar - which is true I suppose - and that one day that would drive us to betray the brotherhood, and that he hoped we died before that ever happened."

"He _what?_"

Shrugging, Sef said, "We went to Father about it, and he said that Abbas confronts his demons in odd ways and to have pity for him. Darim said we shouldn't talk to him, and I agreed happily; I was only seven at the time."

Several pieces fell together in Malik's mind, bits of memory and behavior, and all too clearly Malik foresaw a power play in the Order; Abbas garnering support from anyone who ever disagreed with Altair over the use of the Apple and trying to strike without the grandmaster there to defend his claim. Malik's eyes hardened, his face darkening, and he realized just what Altair was afraid of when he left. Well, the _dai_ was more than ready to fight.

"Sef," Malik said, "From now on you're my assistant."

The boy blinked. "... What?"

"You've proven yourself more than adequate during your apprenticeship - it takes a strong spirit to handle training and raising a family at the same time. You'll do well, and it will keep you in one place long enough that you won't have to worry about leaving your two daughters. I don't want you as a village guard, that puts you too close to Abbas, and right now I fear what he would do with that amount of power over you."

Sef was slow to keep track of Malik's thoughts, but when he did his eyes narrowed, and his face set. "I understand, Mualim-ahu. I'll begin tomorrow?"

"Yes. You can start by getting me a list of names of all the senior apprentices, the ones about to be promoted to journeymen, and journeymen looking to be promoted to assassins. Abbas suggested some new faces on the senior council, perhaps I should take it seriously." He needed to learn whom Abbas would take into his care, whom he would try to manipulate into following him. Looking at it that way, Malik would also need to consolidate his forces, learn who the brightest minds were. Rauf would help with that; he was excellent at picking out potential. Ibtisam, too, had a way of bringing out people's true colors.

He spent the next hour talking to Sef, outlining what he had in mind as they admired the gardens.

"... Master?"

The two looked up to see one of the women standing a respectful distance away, waiting for permission.

"Yes, Lady?" Malik asked, not knowing her name off the top of his head. Her skin turned bright pink at the title, but she stepped forward and bowed slightly.

"Master," she said, "If it is possible, I would like a word with you."

"Without your den mother?" Sef asked, an affable grin on his face. "You're pretty brave."

The girl colored again; her eyes were an unusual color, green. Those eyes glared at Sef and glanced almost uncertainly to Malik.

"Be out with it," Malik said, not unkindly.

"Master, I would like to report that one of the brotherhood was... disrespectful to me."

As if he didn't have enough problems. "What happened?" he asked.

The girl looked uncertain again, but with a deep breath she steeled herself and lowered her _hijab_, revealing a yellowing bruise along her jawline. Both men gasped slightly, and Malik immediately stepped forward, a hand reaching out to examine the injury. The girl flinched, making the one armed _dai_ freeze a moment, before slowing down his movement and giving her time to accept his touch. Her jaw was not the only injury, there were finger marks, almost completely faded, on her neck. She waited, unblinking, for Malik to finish and was quick to put her veil back on when he was done.

"How?" he asked simply.

"He came in as all do, he claimed he sought comfort. He and I talked; he expressed frustration that all treated him so poorly when he had so much potential. His language was very coarse, and I did not feel comfortable with him. I suggested he talk to you or another on the council for guidance, as Lady Maria taught me. He said he didn't want words from me. He..." The girl trailed off, frowning, her eyes far away as she relived the memory. "I told him that I was not trained for that, and he hit me. He said all women were expected to perform for the men who risked their lives protecting their way of life. He said... He said I should be grateful he chose me to bed. Umayma managed to chase him away. She told me to go to you but I was... scared."

"How old are you?" Malik asked.

"Seventeen. I came here when I was twelve. Lady Maria taught me for the first six months I was here, but then she left with her husband. Umayma has been teaching me since."

"She is an excellent teacher," Malik said, smiling, trying to be supportive while he contemplated murder. "What's your name?"

"My garden name is Aleftina, but my birth name is... Barakah."

Blessing? Her parents must have loved her very much. Malik focused on that, forcing his anger to subside. With a deep breath, he centered himself.

"Lady Barakah," he said with utter formality, "A woman should never undergo such abuse as you have, doubly so because it was performed by a brother. On behalf of the entire Order, I offer my most humble and respectful apologies." He bowed.

The girl flushed again, the bright pink over every visible inch of skin. It made the green in her eyes seem brighter, and Malik blinked, the beauty momentarily overtaking him. He was a professional, however, and backed away, glancing at Sef before asking the name of the idiot brother who was about to suffer his wrath.

"Swami," she said softly. "His name was Swami."

Malik personally vowed that this idiot apprentice would be bruised for six months for his vulgar presumptions.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Notes:<strong> And now he history of Abbas and Altair has been revealed.

This chapter runs short because it's a connector chapter. Anyone who's read _The Secret Crusade_ or the assassin wiki can take an educated guess on what happens next, but for those who haven't, suffice to say that things are gearing up. For what, you'll see all too soon.

We once more incorporate Codex pages with the right-handed blades. The journals state that only a few assassins should carry a second blade, it seemed logical to assume that was because making them was difficult. For all the inventions Altair makes, smithing must have been his hobby when he wasn't out kicking ass and taking names, and even though he has the Apple to dole out information from on high, we suspect he's the type to want to experiment on his own.

We also get to justify why it took ten years to kill Genghis Khan, and get another sequence with Sef. We like what Sef has turned into for this fic, and he shines brightest in his scenes in the next chapter. And now we have two more names in the roster: Swami and Barakah. More on them later.

Next week: The Betrayal. Goodness, what could possibly happen in a chapter with that kind of title? :P


	6. The Betrayal

**The Betrayal**

"Was there anything else?"

"No, Master Malik."

The _dai_ nodded and waived the girl off. "Then you may go, Lady Barakah."

Sef smiled. Broadly.

Malik made a face. "If you have something to say then be out with it."

That only made the young man _giggle_, a very unbecoming and certainly unprofessional noise as he tried to cover it. "Oh, Mentor, there are days when your ignorance is most entertaining!"

... Huh? "Should I ask what you mean by that? Or should I kill you for daring to assume that you are smarter than me?"

"Hah!" Sef said. "She loves you, Mentor, isn't it obvious?"

Malik blinked, the statement catching him completely off guard. "...What?"

It only made Sef laugh more, of course, and Malik began to seriously wonder if the boy had lost his mind. The green-eyed Barakah? Loved him? _Why?_ "I'm old enough to be her grandfather," he said, suddenly uncomfortable.

The twenty-eight year old dreamer sighed, still holding his sides with laughter. "I'm the _last_ person to talk about the appropriate age to fall in love - I married at fifteen, remember? And didn't Mother try to kill Father several times before they married? Love is a fickle disease, and it can affect anyone at any age. My youngest has already told me that she is in love, and she is only ten. But all the signs are there, that little garden vision is in love with you; why else would she spend the last three years finding every excuse she can think of to talk to you? Lady Umayma doesn't report to you anymore, does she? Even _she_ knows that girl loves you and she's trying to help it along."

Malik balked.

"You make it sound like a conspiracy!"

"Oh, if a woman wants a man, 'conspiracy' is too light a word. She's certainly beautiful, Mentor; I think settling down would do you good."

"I just turned sixty!"

"So?"

"You are impossible!"

"Love overcomes the impossible, Mualim-ahu, that's what Father always said. Love for family, love for people, love for the Order, love for peace; it's love that drives us forward, and you've denied yourself love for far too long."

"I've denied myself nothing," Malik said, still trying to figure out why or even _how_ he was on the defense.

"Occasionally sleeping with one of the garden girls when you feel an urge isn't love, Mentor, it's physical need. Tell me, have you ever stopped thinking because Lady Bakarah was so beautiful? Do you find yourself looking at her eyes instead of listening to her? Are you embarrassed when the two of you accidentally touch?"

Malik glared, his tongue suddenly tied.

"You're just like me when I was young," Sef sigh, starting to laugh again. "I never thought I'd see the day when my great Mentor would act like a love-sick teen! When I leave for Alamut tomorrow I'll have to ensure that the entire mountain knows it!"

"Say such a thing again and I'll kill you where you sit, boy," Malik growled, and to his horror Sef only laughed more, a hand slapping the table in his entertainment.

"If only my wife were here!" he said, "She knows all about how women ensnare their men, she would give you pointers - assuming of course that you _want_ to be snared. We can always arrange for the two of you to get locked in one of the towers together, conveniently break the lock or forget the key. Maybe we can send her to your room when you are bathing, or how about tripping one of you into the other - proximity always excites the imagination and the body. I could give you some pointers on position of course, but at your age endurance might be more of a problem. Tell me, when was the last time-"

"Stop, Sef," Malik said, his voice slightly strangled. "Just... just stop." He hung his head.

"Sorry, Mentor," Sef said, still giggling. "I never knew you could be teased, I just _have_ to take advantage of it."

"Praise be you're leaving tomorrow," Malik moaned. "Hopefully you'll forget all of this by the time you get back."

"Oh, I doubt it, Mualim-ahu. If anything, my wife and girls will remember it even more. I can't wait for the next dinner we have together. It's a shame they're in Alamut now visiting her family. This can be milked for months!"

"You're worse than Altair..."

"I'll take that as a compliment, Mentor, since I know how merciless he was whenever he teased _me_."

"...Master?"

The two men looked up to see one of the apprentices, Swami, standing at the banister of the upper study, his face sullen. The mood was immediately killed, neither man liked this apprentice because of how he viewed garden women; even after a month in the prison and a year of extra training had not cured the boy of his terrible personality. He would be lucky if he ever made journeyman.

"Yes?" Malik asked, his voice neutral.

"It is time for the Leap."

A glance outside to the shadows confirmed the time, and he simply nodded his head, getting up from the desk. Malik breezed by the boy, Sef hot on his heels, as they descended the steps and into the front courtyard. "When do you leave to see your family in Alamut?"

"Tomorrow, just before dawn," Sef said. "I probably won't see you before I go - an old man like you needs his sleep after all."

"_Sef_..."

"Don't worry, Mentor, I know not to tease you in front of the brotherhood. You have an image to maintain; though why you like being known as a grumpy, sharp-tongued badger is anyone's guess. I much like the patient, soft-hearted, easily embarrassed Mentor who hides gentility in extremely high expectations. It inspired me much more than the badger."

And Malik could only smile. He would never have imagined getting so close to Altair's sons - he had always viewed them as his own but he knew he could never be their father. In the last few years since taking Sef as his assistant, he was closer to the boy than he ever thought possible. He ate with his family once a month, their two girls called him "Uncle-Mentor," and somewhere along the way he became friends with the boy. It filled him in a way he hadn't expected, and he was satisfied.

He climbed the tower and looked out to all the new ten-year-old novices. They looked up at him, wide-eyed, uncertain who he was.

Sef was more than happy to correct that. "In our Order there are two men you respect above all others," he said, "because it is they that have made the brotherhood what it is. One of them is my father, Altair Ibn La-Ahad, grandmaster of the Order of Assassins. He learned the Creed in the hardest way possible, and because of his trails he is devoted to our ways more than any other man you will meet. He is to the East, chasing a butcher because of his belief in the Creed. When he is away making the world safer, the second man you respect is the one who keeps the brotherhood strong in his absence. He is a gruff man, short with his words and sometimes his temper, but he is a man whose heart is bigger than anyone's. He is a man who dedicates himself completely to doing what is best for the Order, and he refuses to let any man hurt that which he is loyal to. You will never find a more patient, more fiercely protective man as my Mentor, Malik A-Sayf."

With a gesture the students all flooded to Malik, the introduction making him the center of attention. The standard questions followed: how did he loose his arm, did it hurt, what amazing things were they going to learn, what did it feel like to kill somebody, did he kill a lot of people, and so on. Malik let their words flood him for a time, before raising his hand. They all quieted instantly, and he slowly parted them to stand on the plank that overlooked the Orontes Mountains.

"To be an _assassyun_," Malik said, "Is one of the hardest things a man can do. It requires him to understand that nothing is true and everything is permitted; some of you may have heard this, but none of you as yet understand it. It is through the training, through the discipline, and most importantly, through the _listening_ that an assassin learns that laws arise not from divinity but from wisdom. It is through listening that an assassin learns the difference between being told what is true and seeing what is true. A weak man accepts what he is told to be true: that if I jump off this battlement I will fall to my death. A strong man, an _assassyun_ will _see_ what is true: that death is an illusion, and like one's own mind it can be conquered. Watch."

He turned, not without some aplomb, and marched out onto the wooden beams. The novices whispered back and forth, thinking he was going to die, wondering what was happening, curious if sorcery was about to happen. The _dai_ took a moment, smelling the scent of summer in the air, feeling the wind whisper through his _djellaba_, sensing the eyes on his back.

And he leapt blindly out to the air, opening his eyes only when the wind started to rush through his ears, the air resisting the eagle's fall. He turned and adjusted his angle, looking up to see the novice's all flooding the battlement, looking over the edge to watch his death. He locked his eyes with as many as he could before he made impact, the hay suddenly covering every part of him, burying him deep in it's sweet-scented depths.

He waited, feeling out his limbs. He could still do a leap, but he knew his age would start to wear down his body soon. He could not picture doing this in another ten years; if he was lucky, perhaps five. But for now, he enjoyed the privilege of initiating the novices into the Order, showing them the mysteries of their ways and inspiring them to pursue their path doggedly.

With a deep breath he climbed out of the hay, he heard several cries above him, shrieks and screams, and he looked up and simply smirked. Another generation... it was the heaviest responsibility, but also the one he took the most enjoyment in.

* * *

><p>The next morning Malik again showed himself to the novices. This time he made the introductions, to their teachers. His words were clipped and to the point, as if nothing miraculous had happened the previous day, and he could see several of the dozen children just <em>itching<em> to ask him questions. When he dismissed them three tried to screw up their courage, and he waited to see if any could manage it.

One boy, half Christian, finally inched forward, and Malik offered a harsh, "What?"

The boy squeaked and almost ran, but something made him stay. Courage like that was rare, and Malik was already planning on asking Rauf to keep an eye on the child when he asked, "Master, sir, how do you know the difference between being told and knowing?"

"You ask difficult questions," Malik said, watching the boy shrink again. He let the moment hang before answering. "It is human nature for the mind to make assumptions: to assume one thing will happen, or assume things will go a certain way. Often men assume that what they are told is true. Other men take advantage of these assumptions to put themselves in power; men like Templars, and they use those assumptions to rule according to their own assumptions, rather than what is right. Even I suffered those assumptions. When I was young I assumed everything that was issued from the old master, Al Mualim, was true, that he could do no wrong. I had to learn the hard way that those assumptions are but illusions, and that assassins must look at the truth with eyes uncolored and unclouded." Altair, he had those eyes, and Malik had sworn the day he found de Sable's journals that he would never use the Creed like a shield again, that he would not let his assumptions get in the way of the truth, no matter how he did not like it. "It is through observation and contemplation that an assassin learns the truth. That is why you will train."

Several hours later he was deep in the lower library, perusing the books and looking for de Sable's journals. He wanted to have them copied and use them as a lesson to the novices.

"Malik," a voice said behind him.

Everything in him tensed, and he turned. "Abbas," he said, glaring at the man. "I assume you've come to trouble me for good reason?"

"Such biting words," the assassin said, his graying beard showing an arrogant smirk. "Perhaps it is guilt that adds an edge to your speech today?"

"... Guilt over what?" Malik demanded. This would leave him in a mood for _hours_; he did not want to deal with Abbas' spite.

"Master! Master, I found it!" an apprentice, Swami, said as he ran up to the pair, his eyes bright and triumphant. Several journeymen trailed in after him, their faces hard. Ibtisam was in the party as well, and he looked at Malik in a way the _dai_ had never seen his old mentor look. "You were right!" Swami was saying, "It was in his room, just like you surmised! I found it under his pillow!"

"All right, Abbas," Malik said, stepping forward. "What is this all about? You have that idiot come traipsing in here shouting nonsense, what point are you trying to make?"

"I am not an idiot, murderer!"

Malik glared at Swami, the boy shrinking from his wrath. "We are _all_ murderers, apprentice, it is through such work that we bring peace to the world. Mind your tongue."

"Is that your justification, then?" Abbas asked, his voice oily and confident.

The _dai_ was quickly loosing patience. "Justification of _what_?" he demanded.

"Do you deny that you did it?" one of the journeymen asked.

"No, that is for the conclave," Abbas said, "The code is very clear on that. For now, lock him in the dungeons; it will take time to assemble everybody."

Malik blinked.

Then he blinked again.

Were they _serious_...?

Apparently they were, two of the journeymen walked up, moving to grab him. The _dai_ easily ducked out of their grasps, he would not be taken by almost-children, not with his experience and his training. He gracefully blew past them and marched right up to Abbas. "What have you done, you hateful old lion?" he demanded. "Has your spite finally driven you mad?"

The grin only broadened. "He is babbling," he said, looking past Malik to the journeymen. "Perhaps it is the Apple's influence; I have always suspected-"

Malik hit him, an elbow clipping his greying jaw and sending Abbas hurtling to the floor before Malik stepped back, glaring daggers at the journeymen as he fixed his posture to show he would do no more violence. Do not compromise the brotherhood, the third tenant of the Creed, Malik lived by it as dearly as Altair did; he would not fight brothers, but he would be damned if he let them restrain him. "You say there will be a conclave?" he said, turning hateful eyes to Abbas. "Good. They'll see through your lies, whatever they are, easily enough."

"We'll see who is lying," Abbas said, still grinning.

Malik spat at his feet and marched out of the library, to the cells where the journeymen were hard pressed to keep up. He would allow the injustice; he wouldn't start another war in the Order. He would be honorable, and let the laws he and Altair had so painstakingly created do their work, and then he would kill Abbas for making this travesty happen. Altair had been right, his years away had spun Abbas out of control, and now he was a danger to everyone around him. Malik cursed violently.

"... Master Malik?"

The _dai_ turned to see one of the garden girls, dress more conservatively, sweeping out the cells.

"Find Rauf," he demanded, "Ask him to find out what is going on. This is insanity!"

* * *

><p>Two days later, two days of sitting on the floor contemplating and speculating and growling and cursing, Rauf finally arrived.<p>

"_What_ is going on?" Malik demanded, immediately on his feet.

Rauf was almost as white as his hair. "Malik," he said, "Is it true? Did you really do it?"

Patience had long since left Malik. "Do _what_?" he roared.

"_Did you kill Sef?_"

And, just like that, the world stopped.

Sound, scent, touch, all of it fell away as the words sank into Malik's mind.

Sef... dead? _Sef_?

"That... that can't be right," Malik said, shaking his head, trying to get the world moving again. "He's gone to Alamut to see his wife and children; they're visiting her family. He had to leave before dawn... He introduced me to the novices..."

Something broke inside him, and his legs suddenly couldn't hold his weight. The aged Rauf had to quickly catch the _dai_, sinking to the ground with him, watching the color drain from his face, the shock settle into his body.

"Rauf... it can't be true..."

"I saw the body myself," the former swordmaster said, his eyes hard. "A witness said he saw you and Sef arguing before you did the leap with the novices."

"Arguing?"

" 'Should I ask what you mean by that? Or should I kill you for daring to assume that you are smarter than me?' And, 'Say such a thing again and I'll kill you where you sit, boy.' " Rauf put a hand on Malik's shoulder. "Did you really say those things?"

"No..., well yes; but it was all in jest. He was teasing me about one of the garden visions." Malik shook his head again. "It can't be true... he's only twenty-eight; he's still a boy... Rauf..."

"I believe you, Malik," the older man answered. "You love those boys like they're your own sons, and even if I didn't believe that I've never seen you loose your color like that. That can't be faked. We need to learn what's happening here."

"Sef... _Sef_... I made him my assistant to protect him... I've failed..."

Rauf turned sharp eyes to the grieving man. "Protect him from whom? Malik?"

The one armed _dai_ struggled to pull himself together. Kadar filled his mind; that bloody fight and being forced to leave the body. Sef now took Kadar's place, too young and too innocent, a dreamer like his brother, both were gone now... how could the world allow such bright stars to be extinguished? Where was the justification for this? Why did the _good_ ones always die so young? And Altair... this would crush him. And Maria! Darim! How could he look them in the face after this? He failed; he _failed_! Sef...!

A fist landed hard in his jaw and Malik reeled back, shocked, to look up and see Rauf clutching his shoulders, shaking him.

"Snap out of it, Malik!" he hissed. "Whom were you protecting Sef from?"

Clarity started to trickle into Malik's mind, painfully slow, as the events replayed themselves and he began to realize how convenient it all was.

That was when he became angry.

"That... that... he _planned_ all this; he's had it planned for months, even years. He was waiting for the chance, for Altair to leave. I knew there would be a power struggle, but I didn't think he would actually kill a _brother_!"

"_Who was it?_" Rauf demanded.

Malik met his gaze with furious eyes. "Abbas," he said. "His hatred of Altair has driven him mad; mad enough to defy the Creed. He's going to try and supplant himself as Grandmaster. He'll call a conclave because the substitute grandmaster broke the Creed and a new one needs to be voted on. I can't believe he's fallen so _far_... It was a mistake to give him the leniency I have; I should have killed him three years ago when I realized he would try to take over the Brotherhood...! I should never have pitied him!"

Rauf nodded, his mind hard at work. "He did call a conclave, exactly as you said, he sent the pigeons out yesterday. I need to marshal forces, this is going to get bloody..."

"No!" Malik hissed, his mind finally working. "We will not break the Creed!"

"Then what do you suggest?" Rauf said, "Abbas is going to slaughter your name and reputation at that conclave. Even if you avoid punishment no one will trust you after this!"

"What happens to me isn't important!" Malik shouted. "I will not be responsible for breaking the Creed, for compromising the Brotherhood! Altair has made us strong, we all worked together to rewrite the laws; I have to believe that this will be overturned. I don't care how stained I become, I can name you, or Aamil, or one of the others. It's more important that the Order knows what Abbas is planning. Send a letter to Halim in Jerusalem, he's a keen mind and he can spread word discreetly to the others that will be at the conclave. If we're going to drag my name through the mud I'll drag Abbas' with me; everyone will know what bitter secrets he has and see how he's a damned traitor. Get my private journals in my room; they're under a loose stone in the corner, by the window. I wrote all my thoughts and plans for the Order there, including my worries about Abbas. Have copies made and spread. The conclave _must_ have an informed opinion. They have to see the truth!"

"Malik, it will take over a month to get them together; and in that time you'll be locked up in here and he out there playing politics. What do you _think_ is going to happen?"

The one armed _dai_ offered a black smile. "Then it's a good thing you're out there, too, isn't it old friend? Do what you can. Visit me when the letters are sent, we can plan what to do next after that."

Rauf placed and aged hand on Malik's cheek, his eyes warm. "It's a shame you don't have Altair's reputation," he said, "You're as good a man as he. I'll see you later."

"Yes," Malik said.

Rauf stiffly got up and exited the cell, off to do what was necessary.

Malik was left alone.

Alone to deal with the loss of Sef.

And his role in it.

* * *

><p>He lost count of days after the first week, but it wasn't too long before the heavy wooden door to his cell opened and the bearded Abbas came in, flanked by two journeymen.<p>

Malik growled, getting to his feet. "What do you want?"

"So gruff," Abbas said, smiling. "I am not a cruel man, Malik. I'm here to check on you."

"That is a lie," the one-armed _dai_ stated. "You are here to gloat over your victory. It's a little early, don't you think?" Malik offered a feral grin. "The conclave has not occurred yet, I suspect their conclusion will not satisfy you."

If it was possible, the grin on Abbas grew even wider. "So suspicious, it is hardly becoming of a man of your accomplishments. After all, you brought back the Apple to Al Mualim so he could enslave the entire mountain - you must have been so proud of that - and all after watching your brother be slaughtered. And after, well, I supposed you must be very happy to be Altair's lapdog."

The anger burst in his brain but he sucked in a deep, controlled breath, and bit it down. "You are trying to insight me, Abbas, it won't work. _Be out with it_, what do you want?"

"Honest concern, friend," Abbas said. "A fever has blown through the mountain, sudden and swift. We don't think it's the plague those damned Crusaders bring with them, but it is still very deadly. We wouldn't want you dying before the conclave, after all."

The words sunk in slowly, Malik knew there was an ulterior motive in this visit and he considered all the possible meanings of the oily sentences falling out of Abbas' mouth. Fever? Deaths? Wanting him alive?

"Many of the senior council have already succumbed," the lion continued, "many of our older members are no longer with us; Rauf, for example."

Malik went cold.

"Aamil has been the youngest lost to us; Nazim, too. Even Ibtisam, your old mentor. We've lost almost half a dozen of our best assassins, and a few of the journeymen, too. It's such a shame, and I wanted to make sure that _you_ at least were well."

So many things were firing back and forth in Malik's head he was almost blind with emotion. The last time he had felt this was when Sef had announced his first daughter, fifteen and frightened. Emotions boiled and churned all through him, his mind, his heart, his gut. Every assassin that had grown to support Altair totally had been murdered, even Ibtisam, who had once hated the grandmaster passionately. Blind rage, shock, sorrow, memories of Sef, memories of Kadar, feeling alone, isolation, terror, dread anticipation over the conclave, everything crashed about in Malik's body, threatening to rip him apart. For the first time in his life words utterly failed him, and all he could do was glare at Abbas with everything that he was. His entire body was rigid, taught, and the journeymen flanking Abbas took defensive stances in preparation of whatever Malik was going to do.

Abbas, however, only stood and smiled, his graying beard washing out his skin and making him look sickly, diseased. He was a disease upon the very Order.

With that look of triumph, he shrugged his shoulder and laughed; an oily, ugly sound. "It's good to see you so well," he said. "I want you alive for the conclave." He leaned forward, into Malik's personal space, and tipped his mouth to the _dai's_ ear. "I want you to see the world you two have built be swept away like it never was."

A growl, low and menacing, emanated deep in Malik's throat, his body frozen in emotional turmoil, and Abbas leaned back to offer one last smirk of triumph before leaving the cell.

And he was once more alone with his thoughts.

* * *

><p>Without Rauf and the others to garner support, the conclave was an unmitigated farce. Over the three days that the senior assassins met Abbas called witness after witness to testify to Malik's bad temper and built him up as a bitter man jealous of Altair's greatness, wishing to hurt the grandmaster in the worst way possible. He stood there and listened to the idiot Swami explain how he had heard Malik and Sef fight the day before the murder, that Malik had threatened to kill the boy for suggesting he knew more than the old <em>dai<em>. All of it was painfully by the book - all except one little change. It had at first surprised Malik, knowing Abbas to be a stickler for the oldest and most esoteric traditions of the Creed, but he realized quickly what the bitter old lion was planning: conclaves were held in private, often in the lower library as Masyaf's senior meetings were held, away from prying eyes. Abbas had decided to instead hold it in the training ring, where any and all assassins - be they novice or otherwise - could witness the proceedings. The unheard of break from tradition was to "ensure fairness," but Malik quickly learned it was to make the one armed _dai_ suffer even further humiliation.

What Abbas did not take into account, however, was that Malik had had an entire month to plan and prepare for the travesty he was forced to participate in. No barbs or lies invoked his anger, as Abbas was clearly planning. No insults or digs made him cry out in indignation; he simply stood, perfectly straight, and bore witness to Abbas' play. The old lion glared at Malik with suspicion, but the _dai_ gave nothing away.

In the end, Malik was declared guilty, as he expected. Abbas "displayed mercy" by "adhering to the Creed," and sentenced Malik to be locked away for the rest of his life. He would have laughed if he didn't know why Abbas was planning on keeping him alive.

The _dai_ of Alep leaned back in his chair. "Do you have anything to say for yourself?" he asked.

Malik threw a glance to the crowd, spotting Lady Barakah, spying the ten-year-old novice who had been brave enough to ask him a question, to journeymen who learned swordsmanship under him, to apprentices that were assigned to him.

Then he leveled hard eyes to Abbas. "Do you still have nightmares?"

That the old lion shifted in his seat uncomfortably was reaction enough. He tried to hide it, saying, "What business is it of yours?"

"To me?" Malik said, "Absolutely nothing, but since the Order has deemed that you take my place I feel it only fair they know exactly whom they are dealing with. Many in the conclave were not here when Al Mualim betrayed our Order, and some were not even alive when that happened. Assuming you have not yet destroyed them, there are several documents in the library - open for all - that tell of how you tried to kill Altair and steal the artifact for yourself. They also tell of how the Apple almost killed you, and that Altair saved your life. I'm curious, is that how you remember it?"

Abbas glared, saying nothing. He had expected a broken Malik; had not planned for a defiant last stand.

"Altair knew how you hated him, but he kept you on the senior council, did you ever wonder why?"

"This is all irrelevant," Abbas growled, a frown beginning to press into his grey beard.

"Is it? Altair forgave you, valued you, kept you on the senior council, showed you mercy and you repay him by killing his son and blaming me?"

Abbas turned to the Alep _dai_. "You're allowing this?" he asked, but Malik was still talking.

"I am not an idiot, Abbas. Neither are those in this brotherhood, and that will be your undoing. They know to see past the veil, they know the difference between being told the truth and seeing the truth, and in time they will see you for what you really are. You are a bitter old man filled with spite who never grew past the death of your father; you blame every misery in your life on Altair even after everything he has done for you, and now in your madness you've compromised the Creed - and you don't even realize it. You've killed a brother, either by your own hand or by a proxy, and you find yourself perfectly justified - even use it as a bid to secure the grandmaster's seat. It's all worked out for you, but it will not last long. Altair will return after Khan is dead, he will learn of your treachery, and he will at last deal with you."

"Is that a threat?" Abbas snarled, the other members of the conclave looking on.

"No, it is a prophecy."

Several murmurs suddenly bubbled up in the crowd. The ten year old disappeared, racing up the hill to the keep and ducking inside - hopefully to the library, as Malik wished.

"Your own paranoia will be your undoing, Abbas," Malik said. "Now that you have your precious power you will be desperate to hold on to it. Every brother that seems intelligent and questions your decisions will be killed in your fear of them learning the truth of your sins as I have. You will surround yourself with idiots like Swami so you can feel above everyone, even though you know you will never equal men of Altair's caliber, and that insecurity will make you quick to cast ultimatums, and over time the respect the seat of grandmaster has created will crumble, and you will crumble with it. You will want real power as you loose it, and you will become obsessed with getting the Apple for yourself. That is when Altair will be forced to kill you."

"Silence," Abbas hissed, "Silence!"

Malik was tempted to grin, but he kept his face completely neutral, showing no emotion as he continued. "You demand silence when I spout 'irrelevant' prophecy? I find that interesting. It is, after all, only prophecy, and our Order does not put much faith in it. Unless, of course, you see a few kernels of truth?"

"You are a murderer! You killed the son of the grandmaster, your words are forfeit; you can change nothing!"

"I don't have to. The brotherhood will do it for me."

"Lies!"

"You are in no position to take that accusation."

Abbas stood, leveling a finger at Malik. "I am in _every_ position! I am the new grandmaster! My word is law! Gag him! Gag him before he tries to corrupt us with more of his insane ramblings!"

Only then did Malik smile as several frightened apprentices stumbled to dash forward.

"I see it's already coming true," the _dai_ said, and after the gag was stuffed into his mouth Abbas strode up and struck him hard in the head. Stars exploded in his vision, and Malik crumpled to the floor.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Notes:<strong> Whew. What to say.

Malik was at the zenith of his career. After eight years of being in charge of the Order he was comfortable making major decisions, changing small nuances in the laws he and Altair had made, and had the greatest assistant ever - Sef, who became a close friend and confidant, and close to Se'fs wife and two daughters. And now this. There's really not much to say for this chapter in that respect, AC wiki starts picking up here and it's just creative interpretation at this point. We will say that we made a conscious effort to have Malik leave a hint of the resistance that simply had to exist when, in Revelations, Altair returns to Masyaf after his 20 year exile and everyone jumps to join him.

Several have mentioned fear of what's coming next. It's ultimately your decision, but please stick through to the end. We think it's worth it.


	7. The Confinement

**The Confinement**

In a final show of spite, Abbas refused to have Malik's wound treated, and an indeterminate amount of time passed before Malik could open his eyes and stomach the dim light of his cell, even longer before he could sit up and move around without his entire head exploding in pain, and by then it was all pointless anyway; he had done all his could, and now his life was over. All that was left was for him to rot away, hopefully before Altair returned. Abbas would blame all of this on Malik, gloat as he incited the grandmaster to kill his best friend, and Malik refused to give the old lion the pleasure.

Most of his thoughts, when they were coherent, centered around Kadar and Sef, two beautiful young men who had so much to offer the world, destroyed before their time because of him. It was his job to protect them, was it not? A fine job of it... He could only hope that Rauf had somehow sent word to Sef's wife and family to stay in Alamut; if they returned to Masyaf Abbas would surely commit another travesty. Did Halim in Jerusalem get word, would he try to break from Masyaf and hold the Creed on his own? Would any of the new branches, still so young and suckling on the wisdom of Altair? Would his gambit work, or would the brotherhood blindly follow Abbas and drive Altair off the mountain when he returned? Would Altair ever return...?

Food was, at best, intermittent. The garden visions who normally looked after the cells and other parts of the keep were, apparently, permanently reassigned to the gardens, and it was up to the cooks to remember to feed the prisoners. Many filled the other cells, staying for perhaps a week before they were dragged off never to be seen again. Soon even that activity faded, and Malik was left completely and utterly alone.

The silence was maddening.

The nightmares were worse.

He became a shell of himself, hollow. His mind would wander dark corridors and darker emotions. Where was Altair? Why hadn't he returned yet? What was _taking_ him so long? Didn't he care about what was happening in Masyaf? When had he last written a letter? _What was he doing?_ Damn him. Damn him! _Damn him_ to the fires of Abbas' grudge! Malik would shake his head when those thoughts hit him, growling and refusing to fall into the same trap as that hated old lion. But, if he could not blame Altair, the only one left was himself, and it was on those days that he became desperate for one of the cooks to come in and feed him. He needed contact, human contact, mental stimulation in some way to prevent his dark thoughts - even for a few minutes.

"Master Malik?"

He jerked awake, wincing as his ever-throbbing head gave a twinge, and sat up, patting off the worst of the dirt, trying to look presentable.

The door opened, and a girl came in with food. She gasped softly before kneeling down and ripping a strip off her work apron, rolling it up and dipping it into the cup of water. "Master, what have they done to you?"

Malik blinked, a little confused, as the cool damp cloth touched his temple where Abbas his struck so long ago. Was it a long time?

"How long as it been?" he asked, wincing again.

"Six months since that man took over," the girl said. She had green eyes. Barakah...?

Malik sucked in a breath. "You're-" But a hand covered his mouth gently, and she shook her head.

"Many ran from the gardens when we realized what our new roles were to be. I am now a scullery maid here in the keep. Please do not reveal me." Her words only barely reached his ears. In a louder voice she said, "I know it stings, please be patient, Master Malik."

"I... I do not deserve that title."

"Not so, Master," she said, and she dipped the cloth again and moved elsewhere, slowly, gently, cleaning his entire face, then his hands, and even his feet. She broke off a chunk of bread and held it out to him. "Can you eat?" she asked.

"... Yes," he said slowly. He took the bread and chewed slowly, mindful his stomach was not used to large meals anymore. He marveled that in addition to the bread was also a bowl of thin soup and even a half-spoiled bit of fruit. "Luxury indeed."

"It is _Eid ul-Fitr_, the end of _Ramadan_. This is my act of charity, since I've no money to contribute."

Pride immediately filled and chafed Malik, even through his dark mood. "I am not poor."

"But you are in need, Master," Barakah said, her green eyes penetrating. "And my hope is to help fill those needs in some way."

She stood. "I will be back after prayers. I hope all will be eaten by then."

"I was not aware you were a practicing Muslim." So few on the mountain were.

A smile could be seen through her _hijab_, and what little of her skin could be seen pinked, before she turned and left.

* * *

><p>It was not the last time she visited, either. Every two or three days she would come down to his cell and offer him food, or clean his hands and feet. She said little at first, always eyeing the door and motioning for Malik to be quiet when he pressed for conversation too hard. His sense of time was still poor, locked away in his cell as he was, but after perhaps a month of this she finally spoke more directly.<p>

"The guards no longer watch me," she said, sighing in relief as she came in. "We are safe for a time."

Malik asked the first and most obvious question. "Why are you doing this?"

"Because you spoke the truth that day. That man is mad. The garden visions are now expected to lay with any assassin that comes, we do not maintain the keep and our education has been revoked. Many of us disappeared into the mountain, moving back with family or taking posts in the keep like me." Carefully, her green eyes giving him warning, she slowly took of her hijab.

An ugly scar ran from the tip of her ear down her jaw line, marring her perfect skin. Lifting up a sleeve, a similar scar ran up her forearm. Malik stared, horrified, as Barakah explained. "A girl cannot be a garden vision if she is scarred. Many of us performed similar acts to be reassigned. Lady Umayma shuffled us away before she killed herself, refusing to be a part of what that man was doing. No one knows we snuck back into the keep."

"But... but... _why_?"

"Because we are _assassyun_," she said fiercely.

Malik swallowed.

"Lady Maria taught us well, and I am sorry the time I knew her was not longer. She told all the new girls, as soon as we entered the garden, that we were _assassyun_, pillars of the faith. Where the men go out and change the world, we in turn ensure that they are not tainted by their work, that they remain strong in the face of their deeds, and that they do not waver. That man is nothing like an assassin, and we all agreed to be ready when the grandmaster and Lady Maria returned."

He swallowed again, slow to fully process what he was hearing. "How... how many?"

She looked down. "Not enough. If there were more I would offer you a coup, but I cannot."

She was even willing to do _that_? Malik almost felt lightheaded, uncertain if that was because of his injury or not.

"Truly, your parents named you well."

"Master, what can I do for you? You need but name it."

* * *

><p>In the end, Malik was finally able to pull his unexercised brain together enough to manage tactical thought. There was precious little Barakah could do, with him locked away in a cell he could not organize much, not enough to reverse the travesty Abbas had committed, but he had her send two letters. The first was to Halim, the only Bureau leader he trusted completely, to explain what had happened and to become independent of Masyaf in any way possible until Altair returned. He asked if any of his documents he had sent Rauf to collect were received, and if so if he had sent copies to Bureaus he trusted. He also made other orders, wondering if Halim would even be able to follow them, issued as they were from a broken, fallen star of the brotherhood, but he tried valiantly not to dwell on those thoughts.<p>

The second letter was much harder to write: to Sef's family in Alamut, urging them to stay there where it was safe and away from Abbas, and apologizing over and over about his failure to protect a boy he considered his own son. His hand shook so violently as he was writing that Barakah had to take over. In some ways that was worse, because the dictation, the act of saying it out loud, made it real, and several times he was overcome with emotion. This covered him further in shame because Barakah witnessed his breakdowns. She was gentle about it, however, just sitting quietly and waiting, only once putting a hand on his knee.

Winter was difficult. Blizzards swept over the mountain every week, Barakah said, and the cold was bitter in the prison. No fires were allowed down there, and Malik only had his worn _djellaba_ to keep him warm - and it was not even his heavier wool one, but the lighter summer cotton. Most of his days were spend shivering as he curled up in a corner, trying to keep himself small to conserve heat. Barakah always came with hot soups and once even cooked meat. She apologized several times that she could not sneak in a blanket for him; guards for the prisons had switched again and each new set was told to be suspicious of anyone who had business in the cells; Abbas wanted to be certain no one aided Malik in any way. Her green eyes were afire every time she talked about "that man" and explained another travesty he had committed.

More than once Barakah would come in stiff or bruised in some way. She was invisible in the kitchens and as she delivered foods, but she was not a skilled eavesdropper, often she would linger too long and someone would demand why she was about. No amount of bowing and begging would save her, Abbas or Swami or one of their weak-minded allies would strike her and send her on her way. Malik growled at the very thought, but the Lady shook her head.

"It is my inability that gives me these wounds. I must become better, so I can learn what I need to help you."

"I can't ask you to do that!" Malik hissed.

"You do not have to," she hissed right back. "I look forward to the day that man is killed. The other assassins are very nice to me," she added, reaching out and touching his shoulder. "They see my pain and seek to help me; your Order has not broken yet. Many of the novices sneak into the kitchens for food, and I tell them stories of you and the grandmaster as I heard them from Lady Maria and Lady Umayma. In the village any city guard I come across helps me carry my packages or offer to walk me back to the keep to see their physicians. The Creed is still there, Master Malik; we are stronger than you fear."

Malik's eyes watered, not for the first time, and he quickly dipped his head down so she would not see him weep again.

But she was still a garden vision, and she artfully placed her hand on his cheek and lifted it up so she could see his emotion.

"Lady... I am a failure," he confessed, unable to contain his guilt any longer. "Altair left me with Masyaf, and look at what has happened. He told me to mind Abbas, and see what he has done. He trusted me with Sef and now..." His voice broke, and after that he could no longer control himself. Regret poured out of him, how his empathy with Abbas had made him blind to the man's madness, how keeping Sef close to protect him lead to Abbas having the perfect excuse to have him murdered, how all the novices and apprentices under him would now grow up under a madman's direction, how Kadar should never have gone with him to Solomon's Temple all those years ago, how he should have fought better, thought better, _been_ better, how he should never have blamed Altair for his arrogance in his youth, how now Barakah and other women of the gardens were forced to spy on Abbas because of his failures and being beaten for it, how Umayma had killed herself to prevent Abbas from knowing where all the garden visions were, how brothers had died trying to stand up for him, how he was not the leader he should have been, and now the entire brotherhood would suffer from his weaknesses.

Where was Altair? _Where was Altair_?

Where was Sef? Where was Kadar?

Warm arms held him, rocked him, and a soft voice whispered in his ears.

Then soft lips touched his cheek, and fingers caressed his hair.

And he was so desperate for the pain to stop that he let it happen.

She was gentle in all things, slowly working him up to it, softly touching him and guiding him, letting him sob when he needed to. She cried with him, apologizing over and over that this was all she could offer, that she was not skilled enough to do more for him, that she had loved him since she was twelve and had tried to save herself for him, that he was the epitome of the Order and that he should never have suffered as he had, and she helpless to prevent it.

They shared their pain, and they shared their bodies, and the cool spring night was warmer for it.

* * *

><p>In the height of summer, Barakah visited him and he could tell immediately that something was wrong.<p>

"Have the guards changed again?" he asked, weakly helping her set down the tray. A year of inactivity had taken its toll on his body.

"I... I will be going away for a while."

Malik blinked, suddenly struggling to process what he had just heard. "... What?"

"My brother has at last created his first child. My parents and younger sister will ride to Alamut to see them, and they have insisted that I come." She looked down, her hands ringing together. "I do not want to go, my brother will see my scars and berate me for the length of my stay, and I can do more here regardless, but... I must go. Father insisted, and after that man took over and I returned to my family I've had to do as he says. He is generous to allow me the freedom to still work in the keep, so... I have to go."

Malik nodded. "I understand," he said, reaching out and touching her shoulder. The physical contact made her blush again, accenting her beautiful green eyes. "Honoring your father is important, and Alamut will be safer for you to say the least. You can... you can look in on Sef's family, if they are still there, and tell me if they are doing well when you return."

She looked down again, still uncomfortable. "I don't want to leave you," she whispered.

"I will be fine," he said, trying to smile. "I'm hardly going anywhere."

"I will be gone a long time," she pressed.

It was easily a month travel from Masyaf to Alamut, and harsh travel, too. Visiting would likely be a month or two, they would be returning to Masyaf around late fall. It... it wouldn't be so bad, Malik rationalized.

He tried to smile again, but that only made her sob and she quite suddenly kissed him, hard, grabbing his hand and placing it on her abdomen. Just as suddenly she broke away and stood, leaving Malik perplexed and still reeling from the lightning-quick display.

She, too, tried to smile; watery and shaky and very beautiful. "We will be fine," she said, her voice choked.

"Yes, we will be fine," Malik tried to assure.

"_We_ will be fine..." She nodded, once, twice, and wiped her face, struggling to put the emotion away, to close off any sign that her visits were nothing more than duty to prisoners.

And then, just like that, she was gone.

The departure didn't seem real at first. She sometimes disappeared for a week in fear of being caught, and as time stretched on he would wake sometimes wondering where she had gone, only to have the memory of the lightning kiss crash down on his head and he would growl, rolling over and wanting desperately to go back to sleep, to sleep away the time he would be alone. Without her his meals came at much more infrequent intervals, and there were days when he could feel the weight disappearing off him. He did not like the shape of his limbs, or how loose his dirty robes had become. He tried not to think about it, but he quickly realized how dependent he had become to Barakah's visits - she was the only human contact he had for over a year, and now without her the silence pressed upon him, and his mind once more wandered dark roads and dark emotions. He spent hours, perhaps days, he could not be certain, trying to picture the maps in his old Bureau in Jerusalem, the path his garden vision would take to Alamut; he wondered how she was doing, what she was eating, if she were safe from brigands, if the Mongols had spread far enough west to be a threat to her. No, Altair would prevent that from sheer force of will.

When the nights turned cool he began to anticipate her return.

When the days turned cool he began to worry.

When winter came...

He tried to rationalize it, to tell himself that the family had lingered, that they were perhaps stuck because of mountain blizzards - some years Masyaf was physically blocked from the world because of their snowstorms. Perhaps her father, trying to protect her, wanted her to stay in Alamut longer, he might have ordered her to stay and her honor prevented her from refusing. Perhaps...

Perhaps she was dead.

That was when Malik finally broke.

Time was meaningless, and he curled in his corner trying to keep warm and not caring if the winter claimed his life. Without her, without Altair, without anyone, he was nothing. He had been nothing, he had amounted to nothing, and he had at last returned to nothing. Days past endlessly and Malik was heedless to it, locked in his mind as he outlined every mistake he had ever made in his life, ruminated on very failure, and lingered on every death that he had caused. He fantasized how his Lady had died, killed by brigands, captured and tortured by Abbas, perhaps even committing suicide when she realized she was wasting her time with a nothing like him. He did not notice as the days began to warm, and he had long since stopped trying to talk to the scullery girls who gave him bread and water.

Abbas had won. There was no point.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Notes:<strong> ... There's is SO MUCH I want to say, but I'll keep it for the next and last chapter.


	8. The Hope

**The Hope**

"Malik?"

He stared at nothing.

"Malik?"

He blinked, trying to focus his vision. Was this another nightmare? Another delusion?

"Malik! What have they _done_ to you?"

A white hood, grey stubble that did not hide the scar on the mouth, and a soft tenor that he had missed for years. Could it be...?

"Alt-" His voice cracked and his breath caught, sending him into a racking cough. Small hands touched his shoulder, and grey-brown hair filled his vision.

"He's been sick." A woman's voice, Crusader vowels. "How long were they keeping him here? Much longer than two months..."

"Malik...?"

He looked up and still could not believe his eyes. "Is this..." he coughed once more, but fought it and tried again. "Is this real...?"

"Yes, brother, I am here," Altair said, smiling briefly. "I will be back, I must deal with the guard."

The white shadow disappeared, and Malik almost thought he was hallucinating but for what he heard next.

"You need a haircut," Maria said, "And a shave." She, too, smiled briefly, and reached out to touch his face. "We're getting you out of here."

He blinked, still confused and not quite believing what he was seeing. "Is Lady Barakah with you?" he asked.

Maria blinked, frowning, before her eyes lit up in recognition. "Little Barakah? From the gardens? She's but a child, how do you know her?"

But Altair returned, and with strength Malik no longer possessed he shrugged the one armed man onto his back, hoisting him to his feet. "We'll take him to our rooms," he said softly to Maria. "Go ahead and prepare for him; I imagine he needs food and water, perhaps medicine."

Altair's wife nodded. "Here's hoping they haven't changed where supplies are kept. I'll to go to the kitchens first." She put on some speed and walked down the halls.

"Ask if Lady Barakah has returned," Malik called after her, his voice weak but able to carry. "She is a scullery maid there."

Maria's face slacked in shock, but she nodded and disappeared around a corner.

"You are really here," Malik said, pressed against Altair as he could hardly carry his own weight anymore. The sensation of touch made it real, he was slowly coming to believe it, and the more he did the more relief flooded him. At last. At last!

"How long were you down there?" Altair demanded, the two of them passing an unconscious guard at the door of the dungeon.

"What season is it?"

Altair's lips pressed into a thin line, his jaw tightening it. "It is early summer."

"Then two years," Malik replied, relieved to give a report to the grandmaster. At last! "I don't know much of what Abbas has been doing in the interim."

"And Rauf?"

"Killed before the conclave. I don't know how."

"And Sef?"

The elation quickly disappeared as he realized just how many of his failures he would have to report to Altair, and the negative emotion drained him of what little strength he had left. The next thing was aware of was a cool compress being pressed on his face, and he opened his eyes to see Altair tending to him. Looking around, he found himself in a journeyman's room, and that confused him. He looked to the grandmaster in askance and he replied in dark tones.

"Our quarters, apparently. Abbas claims I am no longer grandmaster. We only arrived yesterday. Abbas has created a senior council of idiots; and he says that you killed Sef when he learned you wanted to supplant me."

"Altair-"

"Malik," he said in his soft tenor, holding up a hand. "I am sorry. I placed burden after burden on you and never even realized it. When I first became grandmaster you told me you preferred middle management, but I dragged you into being my second, and I left you over and over to set up branches in other cities, leaving you a duty you hated. I am sorry, I never thought about you and your needs. I-"

"Shut up, novice," Malik groaned, turning his head away. "I should be the one to apologize to you. It is because of me that Sef-"

"I'm back," a third voice, Maria, interrupted their conversation and she quickly settled to the other side of Malik's head, setting down a tray of materials. She disappeared again, but only briefly as she returned with a bucket of water. The two of them quickly stripped Malik of his filthy robes; Altair gently cleaning every inch of skin and Maria following with ointments and salves, mostly to the blow Abbas had struck him. "It's such an ugly scar," she murmured, tending it with gentle hands.

"It is no more than I deserve," Malik said, sighing at their gentle ministrations. He lost time again; his mind was quick to fly away, but soon he was in fresh robes and drinking thin millet.

"Malik," Altair said, shaking him awake. "Start at the beginning."

And, slowly, painfully, Malik told them everything. He explained the innocuous day he made a comment about the senior council being filled with old men, and Abbas revealing his colors afterward, about deciding to make Sef his assistant in order to protect the boy and keep him close, about discreetly talking to Rauf and Nazim and Ibtisam and the others to ascertain whom he could trust. He brokenly explained his last day of freedom, the ambush at the library and Abbas' accusations, of trying to use Rauf to prevent the coup, of how Abbas gloated about the "fever" that had taken so many other assassins. He detailed his prophecy to Abbas, hidden words and seeds he could only hope were planted in the brotherhood, and of the high turnover of the cells in his first months of captivity. He trailed off explaining the plight of the garden visions, what Barakah and the others had done to themselves in order to be true to the Creed.

"She had to leave with her family to Alamut," he said, exhausted from talking so much. "That was last summer, and I have not seen her since."

Maria had been an active audience for the report, growling and crying and pounding her fist onto the stone, her emotions always visible on her face. Altair by contrast was consummately mute, his face stoic and hard to read as it always was. But, when Malik at last finished, Altair reached forward and pulled Malik into a tight embrace.

"Forgive yourself brother," he whispered, "Forgive yourself as I do not need to, for you have done nothing wrong. Absolve yourself of your imagined sins, and come back to us as you were before we left you with this burden."

And Malik could only cry again.

Maria hugged him from behind, and the last memory he had was of being embraced by the people he loved most.

It was the most restful sleep he had in years.

* * *

><p>Dawn shone through the windows, and Malik shied away from the light after living in the dim gloom of a prison cell. A tiny hand touched his face and he looked up to see Maria tending him.<p>

"Altair has gone to get us breakfast," she said, "He didn't want to leave you alone, so I offered to stay." She shifted her position slightly, and put a hand on his shoulder. "I asked about Barakah last night. She never returned after she left for Alamut. I'll ask around the village later, once we've dealt with Abbas."

"She... she was so kind to me," Malik confessed. "She wanted to give me everything, and apologized when she could not. Her body... she..."

Maria put a finger to his lips to quiet him, smiling softly. "I remember her when she was first brought to the gardens. When you and Altair were introduced she asked me why she had been born so late and if you had a wife. She had a very strong will and an even brighter mind. Wherever she is I'm sure she is fine."

"When she left... it felt so final..."

Maria nodded. "I have suspicions about that. Only one thing will tear a woman like her away from her man: circumstance."

Malik shook his head slightly, confused. " 'Circumstance?' You mean Abbas?"

Maria blinked, staring at Malik before she let out a great huff of air and rolled her eyes. "I swear; you're no better than Altair! Why did Sef-" her voice cracked but she wiped her eyes and pushed on, "Why did Sef marry so young?"

"Because she was..."

His eyes widened, and all air exited his lungs. Barakah... she might be...?

Maria panicked slightly, quick to put a hand on his shoulder. "Breath, _breath_, Malik. I don't know for sure, so please _breath_."

And his next breath brought about a laugh, weak and broken but one of pure joy, tears of happiness leaking out of the corners of his eyes. "Sef would be so proud," he gasped, still laughing.

And Maria, knowing her son, could only smile and nod. "He probably would."

Not long after, Altair returned and gladly served Malik. The one armed _dai_ was still weak from his months of malnourishment and the grandmaster was only too happy to feed him. "I will never neglect your needs again, brother," he said with deep conviction, and Malik could only smile before muttering, "Novice."

They both laughed.

Malik soon fell asleep again, dreaming for the first time of milk and honey. Altair embraced him and called him brother; Maria touched his shoulder and said he was family. Darim looked at him stoically before calling him Mentor. Barakah, unscarred and beautiful, kissed him and put his hand to her abdomen; and he smiled now, understanding the gesture. _"We will be fine,"_ she whispered. And then Sef walked up with his wife and daughters, smiling. _"I told you settling down would do you good!"_ before clapping him on the back and laughing. And Kadar was there, young and wide-eyed as he always was. _"Welcome home, brother."_ Love was everywhere he looked, his family was enormous, and he was content.

That was when Swami killed him.

**End**

**Authors Notes:** The premise of this? "Fill in the gaps for the thirty year jump from Altair: 30 to Altair: 62 in Revelations." Sixty-five pages later I look over this and wonder if I didn't go a little overboard. Er, I didn't mean to?

Reader reaction for these last chapters makes us really curious. I teared up writing it, and Mirror cried twice (twice!) when she did her separate passes reading it - and she _never_ cries. Even our _beta_ Tenshi cried at the end of this, and so we're just super curious if it happened to other readers. We're nervous that breaking it up into parts ruins the magic of it, but it would be an absurdity to ask a reader to read 65 pages in one sitting on ff . net. So please, please let us know what you thought.

This fic had a lot of pieces to it: there was incorporating the Codex, spinning the "Abbas" plate, trying to show without words that the world Altair sees a much bigger world and has a much wider scope than anybody else, looking at the La-Ahad family from an "outside" source, Constantinople and setting up branches, and showing how the Order broke apart in Altair's absence. For all that this fic is from Malik's perspective, our beloved grandmaster is a huge figure in the fic - understandable, given close he and Malik are.

While not stated overtly, we wanted very deliberately for Maria to have a specific role in the Order, and putting her in charge of training the garden visions made perfect sense - mini assassin's in the making, paving the way for Ezio to not be shy in the slightest about recruiting girls two hundred years later.

Which leads to Barakah. Yes, we created a girl for Malik. His son was born the same year he died, right? Seriously, look at the numbers. How _else_ was it going to happen? Having said that though, Barakah turned into a really interesting character. She's so devoted to Malik, even back when she was twelve and met him for the first time; her crush turned into love easily (or not, given that this IS Malik we're talking about and he's just so prickly), but she's also completely committed to the assassins. Can you _imagine_ what Tazim's upbringing would have been like with a mother like her? (laughs at self for falling in love with an OC).

Though very vague, there are some mild biblical references here in the end; the Bible (at least in my mind) makes washing hands and feet and important gesture of servitude/respect. Given the overall culture of thirteenth century Syria, touch we assume is a rare thing, and that Barakah does it so readily - and when Malik is filthy as heck from being in prison - makes her very bold. It's also a testament to Altair's opinion of Malik as he's the one that cleans him and feeds him. There's also the dream of milk and honey - two things that Paradise is overflowing with.

There's something in this, either tone or set up, something probably technical that we don't recognize, that we really like about this fic, and we hope you all enjoy.

Feedback is always appreciated.


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